


The Double Edge

by Lt_Zoe_Jebkanto



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:55:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lt_Zoe_Jebkanto/pseuds/Lt_Zoe_Jebkanto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do you combat it when you don't know from which direction the danger comes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That Same Damned Dream

**Author's Note:**

> I have never so much as dabbled in "suspense" fiction, but I've waded in this far and hope I won't end up over my head. If I do get "in too deep" and start to flounder, I'm hoping you'll stick with me long enough to be my "swimming buddy"! Grin! ! !

The Double Edge

Chapter One  
That Same Damn Dream

9 FEBRUARY, 2155  
0200 hours, fifteen minutes PACIFIC STANDARD TIME  
MARIN COUNTY, NORTH OF SAN FRANSISCO

“Here, put this on.”

The voice came out of nowhere. Adrenaline and alarm had him springing up from a half-doze and swinging his legs off the narrow cot. “Who the hell are you?”

“Later! Now take this!” The voice was hardly more than a hoarse male whisper. It belonged to a charcoal grey silhouette framed by a colorless glow from the corridor. It moved closer, a long-sleeved arm extending something that caught just enough light to reveal itself as a loosely folded bundle. 

He didn’t move, only narrowed his eyes in suspicious effort to discern any hint of facial features. Nothing. They were obscured by dimness and the drape of a hood.

Again the bundle was thrust toward him.

“We haven’t got all night.”

A flood of anger washed away any residual sleepiness. “Who sent you?” 

“Never mind, unless you want to be here come transfer time tomorrow morning.”

He didn’t, but wouldn’t say so. He could just make out the beckoning jerk of the head back toward the doorway, a furtive, impatient gesture intended to speak volumes. The stranger’s robes appeared to be a muted green or grey. They provided no more clue than the voice as to who he was and where he came from. Perhaps more important was that unanswered question:. who he came from. Or why. 

Still, with only a brief hesitation, he reached for the bundle. Options were options, no matter what shape or shadow they presented themselves in and his choices had gotten very limited in recent days.

“Just slip it on over what you’re wearing,” said the voice, laying the bundle in his outstretched hands.

Even if those choices left cold knots in his gut, as long as any existed, there was hope.

It was only then, as he caught the sound of the soft-soled footfall on the uncarpeted floor that he recognized the significance of the dimness and ongoing late-night silence.

Whoever this was that had deactivated the blue tinged glow of the energy field to enter his cell had set off no alarms. 

9 FEBRUARY, 2155  
0300 HOURS  
ENTERPRISE NX-01: SYNCHRONOUS ORBITAL POSITION ABOVE SAN FRANSISCO

Why was he still having that same damn dream?

As the corridor formed, Jonathan Archer knew it for what it was. The only way to change what happened was to wake himself before getting lost in the unfolding images. 

Malcolm, Phlox, Travis and Trip, phase pistols drawn, came through the door with him. Ahead, the launch computer’s display glowed green against the window full of gold-red Martian sky. Paxton’s face was tranquil, as were the stern features of the tall, dark skinned man at the console beside him. 

“Step away from the control panel!” Jonathan listened to his own voice.

Paxton smiled. “Jonathan Archer, the man who delivered us from the Xindi …” His words couldn’t compete with the one repeating in Jonathan’s head. 

Hurry! 

San Francisco, home to Starfleet and the Coalition conference, was hostage to this xenophobe’s demand all aliens leave Earth. His twenty four hour deadline had passed. 

Enterprise waited, prepared to destroy the meteor-targeting array housed here if the away team couldn’t abort its firing sequence.

“The command center’s in there!” Trip announced beside him. 

“Shut it down!” he ordered, darting forward. He knew his knees rose and fell, his arms swung, but reaching the controls was taking a forever they didn’t have. Malcolm, Phlox and Travis ran too, getting nowhere as fast as he was. Trip veered toward the targeting console, his steps the gravity defying slow-action leaps of sports-replay vids.

Hurry! 

The man beside Paxton swung a phase pistol into view. His gaze flicked back and forth as the weapon’s muzzle sought a target, then lifted toward Jonathan’s chest. 

The safety on his own weapon released. He raised it through resisting air. Took aim.

Hurry!

Behind him, Jonathan heard Malcolm, Phlox and Travis moving into position, while at the targeting console, Trip’s hands flew in search of the abort sequence. Between all of them, they’d deactivate that device!

Then everything sped up.

Paxton’s man swung his weapon past Jonathan’s chest. It wavered a moment before the whine of weapons fire filled the room. 

Trip crashed forward onto the console before the force of the beam toppled him backward and out of view. Jonathan, no longer captive to dream inertia, hurtled forward, following the bright beam of his own weapon through a crossfire of glaring flashes. An errant blast scored the window, sending a spider-web of cracks across the golden sky.

“Ninety minutes to pulse activation,” said the computer’s indifferent female voice.

Through the after-image fireworks flooding his retinas, Jonathan had an impression Paxton’s man had gone down behind the launch console. Wounded? Hiding? Paxton remained, a dazzle-covered silhouette guarding the controls as Jonathan’s hand connected with its edge. Was that his companion reappearing amid the glare from his firing weapon? A shout came from behind him as Malcolm went down and the figure just ahead was hurtled out of sight. 

A sound like shattering ice swelled around him, followed by the hiss and pull of air seeking the breaking window as it tried to equalize with the sparse Martian atmosphere outside. “The room’s depressurizing!” he shouted. “Get Malcolm out of here!” 

Through it all, Paxton’s calm, modulated tones kept resounding in his ears, talking, talking… Ignoring them, Jonathan scanned the console’s display. 

His heart started to pound as he gasped in the thinning air. 

Lub-dub, lub-dub…!

Hurry! 

Damn! He should’ve told someone to come back for Trip!

“Thirty seconds to pulse activation.” said the computer.

Llub-dub…

Sorry, Trip… His friend would… understand… he had to…stop Paxton from… 

…lub-lub-lub-dub…

…destroying half… San Francisco… ending the… Coalition conference…! Had to… breathe! 

…dub… dub… 

Breathing was… hard… work, like… 

Never mind that,, concentrate! A few more seconds… For San Francisco-

…like a weight…

…dub… dub… dub… 

…was pressing… on his chest…

“Pre-launch sequence complete.” 

Far away, the hiss of escaping air became a whine! The weight on his chest intensified. He was tumbling backward, away from the console as he struggled for breath. Down, down until…

He found himself lying in his darkened quarters with a whining Porthos on his chest.

“It’s okay, boy, I’m all right,” he panted under the dog’s weight. Ruffling Porthos’s soft ears, he nudged him gently aside and sat up. The question met him before he could swing his feet off the side of his bunk.

Why was he still having that same damn dream?

Paxton and his top followers were in custody. Sand Francisco was safe. Starfleet was safe. The formalities of the conference were over. The groundwork for establishing treaties, by-laws and mutual aid pacts was underway, along with briefings on what little was known about the Romulan Star Empire. 

The details and colors of that dream should have faded after two weeks! Especially since it didn’t match the events in his waking life.

Jonathan patted the spot next to him and heard the thump of Porthos’s tail as the Beagle wriggled across the bunk. He took comfort in the dog’s warm weight against his side as he probed the question more deeply.

Why was he still having that same damn dream?

Malcolm, Phlox, Travis and Trip, phase pistols drawn, hurtled through the door with him- no exaggerated slow motion in the waking world. Just ahead, the launch computer’s display glowed green against the red-gold Martian window. He ordered Paxton and the man beside him- Josiah his name was- away from the console, then contacted Hoshi to say they’d reached the command center. 

He hadn’t called her in the dream. Probably a minor divergence or wouldn’t his subconscious have retained that detail? 

But Trip’s dash for the targeting controls was the same. And Josiah had raised a weapon, seemed to center it on Jonathan’s chest, his dark eyes flicking back and forth as he gauged his shot. A stream of light erupted from the phase pistol as it swung to the right and Trip crashed onto the console before collapsing behind it. 

Jonathan moved forward through a strobe-light series of flashes as phase pistols returned fire from the back of the room. Jonathan heard more than saw Malcolm go down as Josiah himself fell amid a Fourth of July fountain of sparks. 

“Get Malcolm out of here!” Jonathan shouted, as cracks spider-webbed their way across the red-gold window. “The room’s depressurizing!”

Just ahead, half obscured in after-image dazzle, Paxton guarded the launch console. 

Until then, both realities nearly overlapped. Did the key to the dream’s recurrence likely lay somewhere within them? Would tracking waking memories a little further point out the clue to identify it? 

His weapon trained on Paxton, Jonathan made his way to Trip, lying in a haphazard heap behind the targeting panel, temporarily immobilized but still conscious. “Plasma grid… Targeting control…” Trip managed as Jonathan lifted his friend’s lolling head and slipped an oxygen mask over his face. Rising, phase pistol still ready, Jonathan advanced to the launch controls. Eyes flicking from Paxton to the panel display, he pressed one quick touch-point then another. 

He’d almost dared to recognize relief as the computer’s voice announced. “Plasma grid off line. Launch sequence aborted.”

Paxton’s voice filled his ears, speaking of his cause, his father’s accomplishments and then about Henry Archer’s, playing on Jonathan’s love for his father to distract him. Even now, he didn’t believe it had. It was the weakened window shattering behind him that snagged an instant’s attention. Paxton dove for the controls, hands flying over its surface. “Launch sequence reactivated,” announced the computer.

“I’ve locked the controls!” Paxton’s gasping voice rang with triumph, even as he collapsed toward oxygen starved unconsciousness. “Terra Prime forever.”

Swirling darkness narrowed Jonathan’s sight. His fingers curled on the edge of the console as he pulled in one slow, deliberate breath, then another. His vision broadened to reveal the computer-streamed image of the Golden Gate against clear blue Earthen sky. Bolts of destructive energy poured toward it, grew bright-hot and then…

Discharged as a huge but harmless up-surging geyser in the waters of the bay.

“Guess Paxton’s aim was a little off,” came a muffled voice behind him. He turned to see a masked Trip standing by the targeting console. Jonathan gasped, but found himself grinning as he staggered toward his friend. 

“Thanks to you,” he said.

Trip steadied him with one strong hand while his other arm hung awkward at his side. There was pain in his eyes, but behind the mask, a returning grin lit his face. “Maybe, just a little,” he said an instant before a security team from Enterprise burst into the room.

Jonathan sighed. After the first moments, dreaming and waking events didn’t play out the same, even without Porthos’s contributions tonight. 

Since he’d never been prone to recurring dreams, there must be significance to this one. What hadn’t he found that could connect its pieces? 

Pieces? What pieces? Until the dream began to recur last week, he hadn’t thought there were any missing.

Giving Porthos a final rub, he settled back into welcome warmth. In the morning he’d talk to the others, see if any of them felt the events on Mars were unresolved, or found their sleep troubled by similar dreams. 

Of course, Phlox may not have slept since then, as he’d only recently emerged from this year’s hibernation cycle, and Malcolm would likely be reticent to discuss anything so personal. But Travis would be intrigued and Trip, who’d been with Jonathan in the array’s command center the longest would be… What? 

He had no idea. Between all his planet-side meetings about Terra Prime or the growing Romulan threat, and Trip’s supervision of engine upgrades, there’d been no time for more than a few posted semi-official exchanges. The last time he’d actually talked directly with Trip was-

Jonathan had to stop himself from reaching to activate his com channel. Enterprise was deep in the quiet watches of C Shift. No way was he going to disturb Trip’s sleep for this! It wasn’t the remembered shadows under Trip’s eyes, the fading bruises, or the arm still carried in a sling that decided him. He’d seen Trip more banged up and at least as exhausted before now. The mirror said Jonathan hadn’t exactly looked his best either. Sometimes it just went with the job. It was the grief in Trip’s eyes as he stood with his parents and TPol in the Tuckers’ dining room after little Elizabeth’s memorial service. 

It’d be like Trip to bury sorrow in work. If emersion helped in these early days, Jonathan could respect that. But if his friend needed a listening ear, he wanted him to know he’d be there to offer his. In the morning, before the others, he’d contact Trip, skip one of the interminable briefing sessions and pull rank to get him out of engineering long enough to have breakfast and talk in the way of old friends. About the dream, maybe yes, but first about how Trip was dealing with the death of his baby girl.

Good. Jonathan sighed as regret dissolved into resolve, then became relief as the plan solidified. He’d tag Trip around seven hundred, before he headed for engineering and… 

Jonathan turned over and pounded his pillow into a more comfortable shape, then closed his eyes. The pleasant ache of sleepiness began to steal over him until the question jolted him back to full wakefulness. 

Why was he still having that same damn dream?


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

9 February, 2155  
Zero four hundred hours, thirty minutes Pacific Standard Time  
San Francisco Bay Area

“You still haven’t told me where we’re headed-”

“Quiet!” The skimmer pilot said. “I’m monitoring the comm relays!”

Damn! He wanted to reach over and up-arrow the feed volume on the audio so they could both hear the search updates! But he didn’t know enough about the area’s geography to make sense of it, or about the craft’s instruments to risk distracting the pilot or taking over the controls himself.

After several long moments, his companion glanced his way, then spoke directly to him for the first time in a quarter hour. “Local law enforcement’s been notified as well as Starfleet Security. The false trail through Redwood City still seems to be holding. It should remain credible til we set the ground sighting in Los Gatos into motion in…” There was a glance at a wrist chronometer. “Ten minutes or so.”

He nodded. Whatever the plans were, whoever had made them, they were well orchestrated. An unhurried ride in a privately owned ground car from the San Anselmo holding facility, to a transport café in San Rafael where they sat in their hooded robes and drank slow cups of (dreadful!) late-night herbal tea while his companion spoke in a strong, deep voice about reaching the Socilito compound at approximately zero five hundred. Then they’d walked out to a mostly deserted parking area where this late-model skimmer had been waiting for them. 

While sitting in that anonymous transit stop, sipping the bitter brew and practicing a form of mental discipline by not grimacing, he’d spared an instant from speculating on the possible implications of his journey to enjoy the irony of the situation.

A casual observer looking at the robed and hooded figures in the dim corner booth after hearing them order herbal tea and refer to the Socilito compound would probably assume them to be Vulcans.

Imagine it, Vulcans! He’d taken another quick, disgusting swallow to keep himself from smiling at the delicious irony of it. 

It was a singular light moment in a night full of uncertainties. 

Now all he could do was watch for the first light of dawn to wash the eastern horizon, wait for the craft to land and consider what might happen once it did. Depending on who had arranged his-

His what? His prison break? His kidnapping? 

-and the reason for it, tomorrow could find him bound off planet or dead and vanished. 

But he was no longer a prisoner. That meant he still had options, even if he didn’t yet recognize the nature of them. 

As long as there were options, there was hope.

 

* * * * *

 

Seven hundred hours, fifteen minutes Pacific Standard Time:   
Enterprise NX-01 Synchronous orbital position over San Francisco  
Sickbay

 

“How long do you expect this to take, Doc?” 

Trip stared at the display light reflecting off Phlox’s forehead from where he sat on sickbay’s main diagnostic bed.

“Only another few seconds, Mister Tucker.” 

Keying in several quick commands, the doctor stared at his data PADD. His eyebrows rose in inquiry, then narrowed in concentration. 

Those weren’t the expressions Trip was hoping for.

He listened to the tap, tap, tap of Phlox entering more commands, then watched him raise his gaze to look beyond him. The kaleidoscoping colors washing over Phlox’s face announced that the diagnostic screen on the wall above and behind him had come alive with shifting readouts. 

As Phlox set the scanner on a nearby table, Trip swallowed a rising fist of unease through a throat the grew drier each time he came for another exam. What was the doc staring at up there this time? No point turning around for a look. That screen’s images would make as much sense as Klingon opera. Instead he watched Phlox’s eyes.

”Only another few seconds,” he’d said. Kind of long seconds, weren’t they? ? Well, maybe that was good. Maybe this time he’d get some solid answers. 

It was hard waiting, harder to keep the impatience out of his voice. “You know that’s not what I meant. What I want to know is how long-?”

“I know what you meant, Commander. I’ve just finished uploading your latest results and requested a comparison with yesterday’s. Now, if you’ll kindly lean forward…”

Trip didn’t move. “Look, I need more than computer projections. What I need is-”

“What you need, Commander, is-” Phlox emphasized. “To lower your head.”

Frowning, Trip complied. But no way he was done having his say yet. Gritting his teeth, he held his peace as Phlox slipped a strap over his head, then guided his arm into the sling Trip had been trying to wean himself out of since the day after Elizabeth’s memorial service. Phlox checked the position of his shoulder, elbow and forearm, then secured a neuro-stim band around his upper bicep. “Better?” he asked.

Despite his irritation, Trip savored the relief when the drag on his shoulder eased, though its passing only highlighted how damn wearing those minutes of Phlox’s exam had been while the joint went unsupported. He nodded. “Yeah, but…” 

“In a moment, Commander,” Phlox said, checking the band’s location. There was a soft hum, then a spreading vibration. It rippled over Trip’s deltoid, then moved deeper, dispersing itself into his pecs, biceps and triceps. It reached down into the tissues where the feel of it was harder to name or to isolate, except as a vague warmth and tingle. The pain all but vanished with one last adjustment to the neuro-stim’s intensity setting. 

Trip restrained a sigh. His tone was firm, consciously overriding both the moment of relief and days of frustration. “Look, Doc, I need to know how long it’s going to take this injury to finish healing! With all the studying of upgrade specs I’ve gotta do during these refits, I’d probably mostly be supervising anyway. But…”

“But it’s not the same as direct participation in the refit?” Phlox’s gaze moved from the screen to connect with Trip’s.

Trip shook his head. Not the same at all. Before, if he’d been restricted to light or limited duty, there’d been moments of exasperation, yeah, because language was so much slower than the actions that he envisioned taking would have been. But it was tolerable, even satisfying if he could turn the time into a chance to train some up-and-coming new member of the engineering team. This time he was struggling to find it either. 

“Supervising lacks the immediacy and immersion you’re looking for?” asked Phlox. 

“Yeah.” Almost against his will, he found himself continuing. “There’s too much lag time. I keep thinking about…”

Phlox’s voice became low and gentle. “About Elizabeth?” 

Trip nodded. “A month ago I had no idea she was alive but, y’know?- sometimes all it takes is one look and there she is, right in the center of your heart, like she’d always been there. And you realize you’d give her the moon and the stars if you could…”

Phlox nodded. He had five kids of his own. Somehow, that made it easier to go on.

“TPol and I never got the chance to do the things parents dream of for their kids. Hell, I never got to do more than let her hold my finger through the glove insert in that damn incubator that in the end never did a thing to help her stay alive!”

He remembered the amazingly firm pressure that accompanied the instinctive curling of those small fingers, even through the thin protective membrane that kept Elizabeth’s oxygen-enriched air supply warm and sterile. The memory ached somewhere below his breastbone, but to imagine it fading with time was an even worse hurt. One almost as bad as the moment when those perfect fingers loosened their grip and began to grow cool.

“After the memorial,” Trip said. “I knew I’d miss her. I’d regret that between this shoulder injury and the awful little sterile box she was in, I never got to carry her in my arms or rock her against my heart until she fell asleep. I mostly guess I’m past the tears, but it still slams me in the guts when I find myself picturing what she’d’ve been like at five or ten years old, as a teenager or a grown woman. I wonder how TPol would have been as her mother and what kind of Dad I’d’ve been. I think of all the things we’d do together, then I realize none of it’s ever gonna happen.”

When Phlox’s words came, they were slow, considering. “No matter how we try to avoid it, Commander, sooner or later grief demands its rightful time and attention. Its recognition. It’s the only gift that remains for you to give your little girl.”

Trip nodded. “You’d think I’d know that, wouldn’t you? After all the people we lost in the Expanse? After my sister? I spent months back then half off my head with grief. I expected after how Paxton created our Elizabeth, how he used her, I’d feel it as that same old kind of rage. As angry as I am with him and his damn xenophobe bigots, that’s not what keeps hitting me. It’s finding some of those old drawings from my nephew’s class in a drawer in my quarters, the kind she’ll never get to make. Or seeing a stuffed toy in a gift shop that I can never bring home for her…”

He shook his head and shrugged his uninjured shoulder. 

For several seconds, there was silence except for the murmur of Phlox’s equipment as it analyzed Trip’s readings.

When he spoke, the doctor’s voice held its own note of sadness. “I think the hardest lesson we have to learn over and over about grief is that it never looks like we expect it to or prepare ourselves for. That it can sneak up to take us by surprise.”

Wordless, Trip found himself smiling a little at Phlox as something eased inside him. 

The companionable moment was interrupted by a low-pitched drawn out tone from Phlox’s diagnostic equipment. The doctor sighed. “All right,” he said, breaking Trip’s gaze and raising his eyes to the readout screen. “Let’s see what we have here.”

Trip shifted his position for a look. Yeah, just the expected tangle of colors. 

Phlox’s gaze narrowed and Trip swallowed hard as his dry throat reminded him once again that the concern that had brought him here had yet to be resolved. His words came in a rush, as if their speed and urgency could determine the outcome of the results.

“Like I said, Doc, I’d only be supervising now anyway, but once we start field-testing at Jupiter Station, I’m gonna have projects in engineering to take care of! Lots of ‘em! I can’t just delegate half the hands-on without giving the crew some idea how long they’re takin’ on my workload plus their own so we won’t fall behind!”

The unease that accompanied him on each new visit to sickbay hadn’t disappeared during the conversation about Elizabeth, only waited for it to circle back to medical matters. Now it grew with every second that a motionless Phlox studied the screen. 

Center yourself, T’Pol would say. 

Probably he should’ve tried doing that earlier. It would have steadied him through this exam, made the tangled knot of his emotions… well, smaller. At least he was sure (pretty sure anyway) the filters within their shared bond would keep this latest visit to sickbay from distracting her during the briefings down planet-side.

For T'Pol to maintain her focus right now was vital.

The Romulan threat was more obvious every day. Though each member of the new Coalition’s knowledge of the Empire was sketchy, as it was added to that provided by others, a complex, frightening picture of stealth and aggression was emerging. T’Pol, with backgrounds in science and technology as well as understanding of both Human and Vulcan styles of diplomacy, was proving herself invaluable as diverse cultures, often with long histories of hostility, made tentative forays into strange new territories of trust. 

Problem was, while he didn’t want her distracted, he missed her. It seemed like forever she’d been gone. Between her briefings running sixteen plus hours the past four days and his erratic schedule, their chance for more than a moment of quality time was sub-microscopic! The decision for her to stay at the Vulcan compound had seemed …

Logical. 

Especially when it came to the opportunities there during what free time she had, to seek out directed meditations and spiritual guidance from Vulcans trained in Surak’s teachings. That was, he believed, as vital to her right now as she was to the briefings. 

As close as their bond had drawn them, he couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like for her to carry a katra, especially when it was that of their own sweet Elizabeth. 

Yeah, completely logical. Even now, given the choice, he’d still have encouraged her toward the same decision.

But a mental bond didn’t substitute for seeing her beautiful eyes with all that secret expressiveness in them. It didn’t stop him longing for her voice, the fresh herbal scent of her hair or the silent comfort they took from each other in their grief over Elizabeth. 

And these thoughts were doing nothing at all as far as centering went!

Phlox was still studying the screen. Trip tried another centering breath as his earlier frustration threatened and the doctor’s silence lengthened.

It didn’t work.

“Come on, Phlox! I can’t just keep on cloaking pain with neuro-stim or med-patches! Lately I think my shoulder’s got less strength than when this first happened! My fingers feel like they’re most of the time half asleep and I’ve got almost no grip. Look at this!” 

He made a decisive grab for the med-scanner still lying on the table and prepared to pass it from one hand to the other when, with an equally quick motion Phlox turned from the screen and retrieved it from him. 

“Thank you, Commander. I’d greatly appreciate it if you wouldn’t field-test yourself with my equipment.” 

“Doc!” Trip’s determined tone couldn’t quite mask the frustration. “I need at least a rough idea when I’m gonna get back some real function here!”

It was only a simple shoulder dislocation, right? One that hurt like hell when it happened, but should’ve been down to nuisance level by the third or fourth day! Okay, give it a week, since he hadn’t done much with Phlox’s prescribed exercises those first couple days. That time had gone to loving, losing and grieving his Elizabeth, telling his parents about her and planning with T’Pol for her final arrangements. 

After that, he’d gobbled meals to make time to do them. Malcolm, who’d often been his workout partner in the gym the past couple years, arranged his schedule supervising armory refits to come help with passive range of motion. Doing the reps and having the accompanying discussion of how upgrades in their respective equipment would work together had given him something to focus on beyond his grief. Those sessions had helped in a lot of ways, only improving the condition of his shoulder wasn’t one of them. 

He’d even resisted an inclination toward pressing the limits of his endurance in hopes of a speedier recovery. Not only could that risk further injury, but through his bond with her, that might distract or fatigue TPol with the need to cloak herself from his discomfort. 

God, how he missed her!

“Look, Doc, I just never figured the healing process would take this long!”

He didn’t like the desperation creeping into his tone. He trusted Phlox. The doctor had gotten him through a hell of a lot worse than this, or he’d be dead after that fall from the warp core in the Expanse last year. Worse, he’d still be lying comatose somewhere, all hooked up to nutri-tubes and neuro-sensors! So what was his problem anyway? 

Still, after the emotional roller coaster of recent days, he couldn’t seem to find his own off-switch. “Look, Doc, it’s been two weeks now! Weeks, not days-!” 

“Commander, a moment please!” There went the eyebrows again. Up. Down. Trip bit back the rest of his sentence and held his breath.

“Interesting,” Phlox frowned. “ I want to run a comparison with your initial scans.”

Trip shrugged his uninjured shoulder. Gesturing toward the hand-held scanner, he aimed for casual graciousness. “Okay, Doc, be my guest.”

“Oh, no, Mister Tucker. I want you to lie down, please.” 

“What? Lie…? Down? Like… all the way down?” A whisper of air sounded behind him, then the glide of well lubricated metal over metal. “Wait! Doc, you’re kidding me, right? Not the imaging chamber!”

“This won’t take long, Commander.” 

Hadn’t he already heard that this morning?

Phlox slid a supporting arm behind his back and eased him down onto the table.

He wanted to send him into that damn tube? Good thing he wasn’t claustrophobic! But a whole-body scan? For a shoulder injury? 

The Australian Outback probably wasn’t as dry as his throat. But he had enough voice to protest against the worry in the doctor’s face.

“Look, if it was taking that phase pistol hit at the same time that’s complicating things, I’ve taken plenty of them before and, nasty as they are, I’ve never had any problem that lasted more than…”

“Up till now, Commander,” Phlox’s tone was sharp, but not with annoyance. It was, Trip realized, filled with something like incredulity. He slid a pillow beneath Trip’s head, then stared at the readings again. “Unless you took a full-body hit from the usual phase pistol for more than a second or two, you would have been no more than stunned-”

Trip’s head came up off the pillow. “Not more than…? You’re saying this one was different? That this hit could’ve-?”

“I’m saying, Commander,” Phlox cut in. His gaze honed in on Trip’s, very sharp, very direct, though his touch on Trip’s arm was both firm and gentle. “That, if this had been anything more than a graze, we wouldn’t be here now, having this conversation.”


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Zero seven hundred hours thirty five minutes, Pacific Standard Time  
Wayfarer’s Café  
San Francisco, California 

“You’re late!”

The woman’s voice rang amid the bustle and clatter of the breakfast rush. Her smile was bright as she patted the table across from her with an inviting hand. But as her companion sat, he saw it never reached her eyes. She leaned toward him and passed over the menu. Her question, so low that it was almost as much mouthed as murmured, held nothing but urgency. “Did you get him to…” There was a pause and a surreptitious glance around for the server. “… the designated location?”

“I dropped him at the safe-house, yes.” He smoothed the front of the business casual jacket he’d changed into, then took the menu. 

“What held you up” Her smile flashed again. She sat straighter. “Hello, Dylleth, I’ll take the usual spinach omelet, a dish of fruit and the bottomless coffee too. I have a long meeting this morning and I’m sure my colleagues want me awake for it!” 

The pilot studied his menu. “Coffee, a broccoli crepe and glass of orange juice.” 

“Right away.,” Dylleth set two full water glasses on the table before hurrying off.

The woman watched her retreating back. “You haven’t given me an answer.”

“I didn’t imagine you wanted me sharing it with the server.” He managed to keep all but a trace of annoyance from his tone. “We were delayed because the alert went out almost fifteen minutes before we expected. They were shifting the security perimeters just as we entered the city.”

“You weren’t followed?”

“Don’t be so damned paranoid!” He made less effort to hide his irritation this time. “Do you think I’d have risked coming here if I thought-?”

The woman’s laugh interrupted his words, completely genuine this time. “Of course I think you would! Nothing like hiding in plain sight is there, ?” Still smiling, she tapped the table for emphasis. “Oh, thank you, Dylleth! This looks lovely!”

Dishes settled before them, between waiting sets of silverware and napery. Long, quick streams of coffee filled one, then two cups as a suddenly casual conversation was picked up, its words punctuated by pauses for bites as well as the soft clinking of cups and cutlery.

“In case you’ve raised any suspicion,” the woman resumed after Dylleth departed. “I have another assignment for you. Your new passenger isn’t involved with last night’s escapade, so if there is any suspected involvement, it will appear accidental . Meanwhile, the next phase of our friend’s journey is set. With his well publicized anti-alien activities, nobody’s likely to believe he’d be planning to go off planet. Arranging for that has its challenges but…” her words trailed off as the server returned, coffee pot in hand.

“Are you ready for refills?” Dylleth asked.

The woman sighed and shook her head with obvious regret as she checked her chronometer. “Unfortunately, no. None for me thanks. Just put both our breakfasts on my tab. I’ve got to run. I’m expected at Starfleet in five minutes.” 

 

Ten hundred hours, fifteen minutes Pacific Standard Time  
Starfleet Headquarters

Finally!

The briefing was over.

Amid the scuffle of many shoes, the rustle of robes and the clatter of desk-tops folding down into their slots on the sides of auditorium seats, Jonathan Archer deactivated his PADD and stifled a yawn as he got to his feet.

There wasn’t much that could feel better after two hours in one of the narrow seats than a good flex and extend of his stiffening back, shoulder and knee muscles- even if, for politeness sake, the stretch had to be kept subtle. Except maybe to let go and enjoy that good, long, deep yawn he’d just managed to suppress. 

He glanced with more than a little envy toward the Tellarite delegation.

There could be real advantages in belonging to a culture that had never developed the idea of associating yawning and stretching with boredom and boredom with rudeness. Especially when the urge had less to do with the presentation than with a simultaneous lack of both sleep and strong, early coffee.

“Delmonico’s or Wayfarer’s?” came a voice beside him.

“What?” Jonathan glanced to his left, then realized the woman whose name-badge identified her as Lieutenant Saxby, a specialist in Starfleet’s Linguistics Department had been speaking across him.

A laugh sounded from his right. It was vaguely familiar. He turned to recognize a senior coordinating assistant in Admiral Gardner’s office. Right. Atherton. He was pleased to recall the name before catching a glimpse of her identity badge. Even more pleased to note that she too was sporting lieutenant’s pips. She’d once served with Admiral Forrest. Remembering the number of early morning meetings they’d attended in his old friend’s office, it was no surprise that her companion was seeking a recommendation on the coffee. 

She must have remembered as well, as she threw him a knowing grin. “Don’t tell me you’ve been out trotting around the galaxy so long you’ve forgotten the names of the places who serve the two strongest coffees in the neighborhood!”

“Oh, I think I would have remembered,” Jonathan managed to return the grin as they all stood and sidled their way down the row. “If I’d been sufficiently awake.”

“Join us, Captain?” The linguistics officer asked as she shifted the strap of a small attaché case over her shoulder. “We have twenty five minutes until the session resumes.”

One of the things he’d found most interesting and instructive during these last days of briefings and discussions on Romulan technology, strategic attack patterns and suspected clandestine activities, was the informal conversation that took place between meetings. The training and backgrounds of his two companions could lead to some interesting perspectives. Ordinarily he would have welcomed the chance. 

But no, not this morning. Not even taking into account how tempting those words- “strongest coffees” might be after last night’s broken sleep!  
“Another time, thanks. Got a couple of things to take care of.” he said, pausing only long enough to nod genuine appreciation for the invitation to their midmorning break, before turning down the aisle in the opposite direction. 

What he wanted, no needed, were a few private, uninterrupted minutes to find out if there were any return messages waiting for him from Travis, Malcolm, Phlox or Trip and hopefully, to get a meeting or two of his own set up.

During the Andorian Ambassador’s presentation on Romulans attacking his world’s vessels and the sensor reports giving the initial impression they were perpetrated by Vulcans, he was able to put aside the question that had wrecked last night’s rest.

Why did he keep having that same damn dream? 

Now, it was back, not urgent, but an uneasy awareness tugging hard enough at this thoughts to propel his footsteps through a set of double doors with single-minded haste. 

He’d never been prone to recurrences like this! There must be a reason he was having them now! Some kernel of… of significance!- some puzzle piece- that must not be disregarded. If he’d learned anything since Enterprise launched, it was to trust the promptings of his intuition. 

Besides gaining an impression of events back on Mars, Jonathan also wanted to arrange a little long-overdue catch-up time with Trip.

Despite last night’s resolve, he hadn’t managed to reach him before he’d left his quarters. The announcement on Trip’s personal com said only that he could be reached in Engineering after his shift began at 0800. 

Though Jonathan’s first meeting wasn’t until 0815, he wasn’t surprised not to hear from the engineer before that. Trip usually began the day with his own cup of warp-fuel while conducting the debriefing of his C Shift personnel, then ran a quick check of the engine’s current status before reviewing his messages. 

Jonathan thought about alerting him to the idea that the Martian incident two weeks ago still seemed unresolved, but there was no point leaving such a message with no specifics to refer to. He settled for a simple “Talk to you later. Let’s plan some catch-up time. My quarters? Beer? Maybe a water polo match- it’ll be live, not a vid…”

He was frustrated, but not too surprised not to reach Travis, either.

“I’m at a piloting upgrade certification,” the Ensign’s mostly cheerful message had stated. “Just leave your name and… wish me luck!” 

Damn! Jonathan had known he’d had the test scheduled this week, but not exactly when. He wished Travis luck and left it at that. 

Malcolm’s message, more succinct, simply stated he was in a briefing about a breaking security issue. The captain posted him an overview of his own schedule for today, just in case immediate consultation was required. 

Phlox, even more briefly still, stated that he was in the midst of a procedure and unless it was an emergency, shouldn’t be disturbed. 

So, with no outlet for the idea, no action yet taken on its behalf, no wonder the question was pulling at him again.

Why did he keep having that same… 

It was the familiar staccato of long, purposeful strides echoing across the hallway’s uncarpeted terrazzo, followed a moment later by the soft rustling of heavy robes that alerted him as to who it was that had followed him out of the meeting.

“Ambassador?” he asked turning halfway around, almost as the Vulcan reached him. “How can I help you?”

For an instant, he regretted the wariness in his tone.

Despite the fact that Soval had become one of his strongest supporters at the Coalition conference following the successful defusing of the Terra Prime situation, years of distrust had the adrenaline already starting to sing in his veins. The Ambassador’s expression gave him little cause to disregard it.

“Captain, may I speak with you…” Soval barely turned to study the crowd emerging from several sets of conference room doors and moving down the main corridor in search of mid-morning refreshments. “Some place where we will not be interrupted?” 

His tone suggested that “somewhere we will not be overheard” went without saying. 

Nodding, Jonathan gestured for the Vulcan to walk beside him, then turned down a side hallway toward the office Starfleet had provided him for use between briefings. “I have something I need to follow up on that shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes. Can I offer you a cup of tea while you wait?”

He was somewhat surprised at Soval’s immediate, wordless nod. 

It must be important for the Ambassador to agree so readily. Jonathan reconsidered the delay. Setting up a meeting to discuss a troubling dream seemed inconsequential compared to the implied urgency in the Vulcan’s words. Still…

There was no point speculating as to what was on the ambassador’s mind as they turned a second corner. The possibilities abounded. Checking whether he had any responses to his messages would take only seconds and what that didn’t do for clearing his tired mind, a cup of strong black coffee as he listened to Soval, would.

But as he and the Ambassador turned down a second, narrower hallway, Doctor Phlox appeared from a connecting corridor and hurried to meet them. Soval dropped back a pace as Jonathan’s footsteps speeded up. “Phlox?” 

“Ambassador,” the Denobulan said in greeting, sketching him a quick, distracted Vulcan salute, before turning to Jonathan. “Captain, I took the liberty of checking your schedule in hopes I might have a word with you this morning.”

“If you need a moment,” Soval began. 

“Ambassador,” Phlox cut in. “This shouldn’t take more than a minute or two and actually, it might also be of significance to you.”

Soval’s rising eyebrow hinted at curiosity, though his nod was no more than courteous as he gestured Phlox to accompany them. Jonathan led the way down the hallway, through a door with a palm plate and his name beside it, into a small office with a large window looking out on the silver-fogged San Francisco morning.

Setting the pace of what had now become a meeting sandwiched between meetings, Jonathan coded in two different requests for herbal tea for Phlox and Soval and then a coffee for himself. 

“Well, Doctor,” he said, passing him a fragrant, steaming cup. “This can’t be an emergency or you wouldn’t be here…”

“Not precisely an emergency…” began Phlox as Jonathan handed Soval his tea, then sat down, cradling his mug between his palms. “But a troubling development.”

Had there been a slight hesitation? A significant emphasis on the words? “Go on.” 

“I examined Commander Tucker this morning.”

“Trip?” He knew it wouldn’t be the engineer’s grief that brought the doctor here during briefings, though he found himself asking. “How’s he doing? I haven’t had much chance to talk to him since… Elizabeth’s memorial.”

“The loss of a child is one of the most difficult a parent can endure. Commander Tucker’s grief is still fresh, but I believe he’s coping with it as well as can be expected.”

The hesitation this time was definite. 

“Go on,” said Jonathan.

Phlox produced a data PADD. “During the incident on Mars, the commander sustained an apparently minor injury.”

Jonathan nodded. He’d seen that happen. Both on Mars and in his…

Why did he keep having that same damn…?

…dream last night, in high-resolution detail. The blast’s momentum sending Trip crashing down on the console before tumbling him backward out of sight. 

“You said ‘apparently minor’. Is Trip all right? Never mind that. If he was, you wouldn’t be here right now. So, what’s going on?” 

Phlox activated his PADD’s display. “Several days ago I observed the commander’s recovery was slower than anticipated. At the time, I was not unduly concerned. Strong emotional responses such as grief can have a profound effect on the body’s rate of healing, and Commander Tucker was forthright about being less than diligent about his therapy regime the first several days after the injury…”

“He had a lot on his plate to deal with,” said Jonathan, a slight note of defensiveness creeping into his tone on behalf of his friend. “And since then?”

“He’s followed every instruction to the letter.”

Jonathan’s first reaction would have been to say “good”. Trip could be notoriously stubborn about following doctor’s orders. But Phlox’s look said that whatever this was about, it was anything but good. Frowning, Jonathan set his coffee aside, knowing his stomach would give it a sour welcome at best. 

“But he still hasn’t recovered like you think he should.” It was a statement.

“No. The initial swelling and inflammation are gone. The bleeding into interstitial tissues has been reabsorbed. These are systemic responses to injury and Commander Tucker’s have been within normal limits…” 

“Then what is the problem?”

“There’s been no improvement in rebuilding localized connective tissues, even with collagen and elastin infusions or light induction therapy. Despite neuro-stim for maintaining activity in the muscle fibers, decreasing tone has caused some subluxation of the shoulder joint with a resultant-”

Jonathan held up a silencing hand. Whatever all that meant, he didn’t like the sound of it. “In English please, Doctor,”

“Commander Tucker is losing, not gaining function in his shoulder, hand and arm.”

No. He didn’t like it at all. Things wouldn’t go so wrong without some deeper underlying cause. Had Trip had too much radiation exposure on that Romulan ship a few months back? Or been incubating a serious illness that had gone undetected up until now? Would the loss of function continue to spread, compromising more and more of Trip’s abilities? And why would any of it be of possible significance to Soval? He wasn’t sure which it was that put the most sharpness in his tone, the concern of a captain, or of a friend. “I assume you have an alternate treatment in mind.”

“I am pursuing several options,” began Phlox.

“Doctor, what I want to know, bottom line, is my chief engineer going to be all right?” Jonathan demanded.

He didn’t like the next hesitation any better than the ones before it, or the considering look on Phlox’s face, either. Jonathan reached for his coffee, but didn’t drink. Only circled the mug within his hands for something to do.

Trip crashing onto the array’s command console… 

Not recovering the way he should be… 

Losing function… 

He had to be all right! Enterprise would need him when its upgrades were complete. Hale. Fit. Healthy. With no underlying illness. With strong, agile arms and hands that could work warp core magic. Far more than that, Jonathan needed him at his side out there among the stars, not just as a damn fine engineer, but as the sounding board who could be trusted to speak his mind with complete, even sometimes uncomfortably blunt honesty, as the link to his oldest dreams and his furthest ranging hopes… As his best and oldest friend.

“Captain,” Phlox sighed. “Without seeming insensitive to the issues of Commander Tucker’s current situation, there are ramifications here that reach far beyond the degree of his recovery.”

Of course there were. Jonathan knew that. Had begun to recognize it from the moment Phlox brought Soval into the conversation. He braced himself against conjecturing what would happen if Trip couldn’t pass his Starfleet physical before Enterprise finished her refits and started out on her next mission, then nodded for the doctor to go on. 

Though Phlox was still clasping the PADD between his hands, he did not consult it as he continued. “The source of the Commander’s difficulties isn’t, as I first assumed, the impact he sustained colliding with the console or the floor in the Verteron Array’s command center, but the hit he took from the phase pistol. On the stun setting, the patient usually recovers in minutes or hours and with few, if any, aftereffects other than a headache or upset stomach.”

Jonathan nodded. He hardly needed telling. More than one memory had him squinting and raising a hand to rub at the back of his neck.

“Unfortunately,” Phlox went on. “The weapon that injured the commander wasn’t-”

“It wasn’t set on stun.” Jonathan finished along with the doctor as his hand dropped.

Not set on stun! That hadn’t been a large room. When he thought about the close range of the blast, there was the strong possibility that little Elizabeth might well, however briefly, have survived her father. For that matter, considering that, for at least several eternal seconds that weapon had lifted, then pointed, in the direction of his own heart, she could have outlived both of them!

But still… 

The vision came and went so fast he hardly registered it except as an increase in his already nagging unease. Back at the array…

Paxton’s man swung his weapon past Jonathan’s chest. It wavered a moment before the whine of weapons fire filled the room. Trip crashed forward onto the console before the force of the beam toppled him backward and out of view. 

Why did he keep having that same…?

He cleared his throat. Should he take a moment to reexamine or to thrust aside the recurring images? The decision made itself for him. Already he could see…

Himself hurtling forward, following the bright beam of his own weapon through a crossfire of glaring flashes. 

With an impatient shake of the head, he blinked as if that would clear the memory of after-image fireworks that had flooded his retinas. 

Through that dazzle, wasn’t that Paxton’s man going down behind the launch console? Wounded? Hiding? And Paxton, standing beside it, guarding the controls? There was a shout from somewhere behind him. He’d realized that Malcolm had also gone down and then shouted for Phlox and Travis to get him out of there as the window erupted in spider-web cracks with a sound like breaking ice…

“That’s right, Captain.” Phlox was agreeing with him. “The commander received only a glancing wound, but with the weapon not set on stun…”

Wait! Had one of those puzzle pieces landed in his hand? Where…? How could it be fitted in to an incomplete picture?

Malcolm… had also gone down! But…

“That weapon!” Jonathan exclaimed. “Malcolm…”

“Yes,” Phlox caught the name and, not waiting to hear what Jonathan would say, continued. “I took the liberty of contacting Lieutenant Reed as soon as I finished Mister Tucker’s scans this morning, with the idea of examining…”

Examining Malcolm was he going to say? 

Jonathan leaned forward in his chair. 

But… he considered… Back on the ship, then during the speech at the Coalition conference, and as part of a panel presentation on weaponry the day before yesterday, hadn’t Malcolm seemed to be all right? What treatment could he have had that wasn’t given to Trip?

Jonathan leaned forward in his chair. “As I understand it…” he began, feeling his way into the half-foreign territory of medical procedures. “The therapy for a phase wound is a directed energy pulse, right? Set at the frequency that counterbalances the one that caused the damage. Right?”

“That is correct, Captain. The Lieutenant should be getting back to me shortly with confirmation of what I’ve already ascertained. That Commander Tucker hasn’t shown any response because…”

Jonathan’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Lieutenant Reed? Getting back to Phlox? With confirmation? Then it wasn’t Malcolm he was talking about examining? 

He was even more surprised to hear Soval’s voice break into the doctor’s flow of words. “Commander Tucker may not have shown a response to any of the standard therapeutic frequency settings used to date because the treatment modalities from both the Starfleet medical libraries and the Vulcan data base do not…” 

His words were interrupted by the soft chirrup of a comm. signal.

By the perplexed arch of his brow, it wasn’t the Ambassador’s. Nor was it his own, Jonathan realized, but the doctor’s.

It was answered before it could sound again.

“Phlox here.” There was no look of surprise on his face. Obviously he’d been expecting the contact. “Anything to report?”

Was it further news on Trip?

He caught the small rising, falling tones of quick words, even thought he recognized the voice before Phlox went on. “I’m with him now, along with Ambassador Soval… When is your ETA? Already? Good. Then you’ll have been given the directions to his office. Yes… I think that would be more than advisable.”

Jonathan raised questioning brows as Phlox closed out the communication.

“Lieutenant Reed will be joining us momentarily,” said the doctor. “I suspect, Ambassador, that unless I miss my guess, his finding will confirm what you were about to tell us…”

“Damn it!” Jonathan glared from one to the other. “I’d appreciate being let in on whatever it is that’s going on here!”

“I believe,” said Phlox, returning his look with what seemed maddening calm. “We will all know in a moment.”

The office door chime sounded. 

“Yes!” barked Jonathan. “Come in!”

The door slid open to reveal Lieutenant Reed. He certainly looked just fine as he stepped through, his posture as formally erect as usual in his Starfleet blues. “Captain, Ambassador,” he nodded a brief acknowledgement to each before turning to Phlox. “My apologies, Doctor. I’d’ve had this information to you a bit sooner, but when you contacted me, I was on a break in an emergency security briefing that I was summoned to early this morning. However, I was able to gain secured computer access and set up the parameters for the analysis you requested.” He paused to activate the data PADD he carried. “The results came in just a few minutes ago.”

As Malcolm passed the device to Phlox, Jonathan gestured him to the office’s one remaining chair. “Sit down, Lieutenant. It seems there’s a good deal to discuss here.”

There was the soft rustling of robes as Soval turned to Jonathan. “I was informed of the same security matter as the Lieutenant immediately before the start of this morning’s meeting, though I suspect that by now he has far more of the details than I. It was, in fact, why I wished to have a few minutes of discussion with you before you receive an official notification from Admiral Gardner. Last night there was a security breech at the Marin County detention facility where the leading members of the Terra Prime movement captured at the Vertaron Array have been held awaiting trial.” 

Malcolm was nodding in agreement. “It was announced at this morning’s briefing,” he said. “That at approximately two hundred hours, with assistance from the outside, one prisoner managed to leave the facility and currently remains at large.” 

Members… of the Terra Prime movement… captured at the Vertaron Array…!

Why did he keep having…?

Jonathan rounded on Soval. Managed a deep breath as he notched down his instinctive reaction. The Ambassador, he reminded himself, wasn’t responsible for every action taken by his world’s officials. Still, he couldn’t keep a note of sharpness out of his voice. “Why is it that the Vulcans knew about this almost two hours ago and Starfleet hasn’t contacted me with it until…”

Soval must have recognized the effort of restraint. He did not, as he once may have done, respond with a properly censuring, all too logical retort of his own, but glanced toward Lieutenant Reed and nodded for him to continue.

“Sir!” exclaimed Malcolm. “The main focus of this morning’s meeting was for coordinating procedures to be used in the search. The Vulcans were only notified at the same time as Starfleet Security because two people, apparently Vulcan, were spotted in an all night café just north of here in San Rafael. A ground car in the café’s parking area bore the same designation as one captured on routine surveillance monitors outside the detention center only a short time earlier. The two suspects were seen leaving the café in a late-model skimmer Unfortunately, since no general alert had been sounded no specifics on that craft are available. A background trace on the ground car however, did reveal that, until recently, the registration was held by the Vulcan Embassy. 

The Vulcan Embassy? Involved with Terra Prime? Jonathan stared from Soval to Malcolm. It made no sense. Likely it was a red herring, a diversion to confuse the investigation process. But how many layers deep had the false trail been laid? 

“On the surface,” he said, considering. “It sounds like a ploy. One set in place to buy enough time for the prisoner to disappear…”

Malcolm’s nod was approving, as the faintest of smiles touched the corner of his mouth. Nice to see his captain in tactical mode. “On the surface, yes,” said Malcolm. “Which is the first reason to search for the diversion within the diversion.”

“Meaning?” Jonathan encouraged as he studied his tactical officer’s keen grey eyes. They were alight with ideas. Malcolm was on to something. Even after all the years serving together, the lieutenant was still in many ways an enigma, but in a situation like this, there was nobody whose instincts and bulldog tenacity he valued more. 

Malcolm gave a slight shrug. There was more than a hint of frustration in his sigh, though his tone remained level. “Still working on it. There were no reports of stolen skimmers last night, nor of a skimmer of any kind landing at or near either the Vulcan Embassy here in San Francisco, or their compound in Sausalito.” 

“Captain,” Phlox looked up from the data PADD he’d been examining. It was difficult to read his expression. Could a face hold signs of comprehension, relief and concern all at once? “Lieutenant Reed’s report has a good deal of bearing on what we were discussing earlier.”

Jonathan heard the note of surprise in his own voice. “On… Trip?” 

Before Phlox could answer, Malcolm reached for the PADD. “Doctor, may I?” 

Phlox frowned down into its display for several seconds before, with a sigh, he passed it to the lieutenant, then divided a look between Jonathan and Soval.

“After examining Mister Tucker,” said Phlox as Malcolm began tapping commands into the PADD. “I reviewed the medical data on everybody that sustain phase weapon injuries at the Vertaron Array Command Center, both Starfleet and Terra Prime personnel. Only the commander has demonstrated any long-term effects. In fact, since he was the only person impacted…”

Jonathan glanced at Malcolm, before turning again to Phlox. “So, what are you getting at, Doctor?”

“The commander’s injury entailed a pattern of localized disruption that wasn’t duplicated anywhere else. Not in any other individual, nor on any inorganic surface such as a wall or console. Which means, among other things, that Mister Tucker and Lieutenant Reed here, though fired at from what I can demonstrate to be virtually the same angle, with only a slight variation in range, were not hit by the same weapon.”

“But I read the report!” Jonathan protested into the silence following Phlox’s words.

He had. Three times. Once in quick overview, during the sad and insomniac hours before he’d left for Trip’s parents home to attend the memorial for their granddaughter. How had he ever imagined understanding the events on mars could have helped any of them deal with the grief! At least had created the late-night illusion that he was doing something to make sense of the events surrounding Elizabeth’s short life and her death.

Mostly, he believed now, that was what had started the cycle which had broken so many other rests since then.

Why did he keep having that same damn dream?

On his return from the Tuckers’, he’d read the thing twice more in microscopic detail. The first time was to sign off on it for Starfleet. The second was to try to find an answer for that recurring question that was getting just about as annoying and unsettling as the dream itself!

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he addressed the group at large, though his gaze fastened itself on Malcolm. “The preliminary sweep of the Command Center turned up only one phase pistol in the area from which those blasts were fired. One that was registered to Paxton himself. All others within either the room or points just adjacent to it could be traced to Starfleet personnel.” Jonathan’s voice trailed away as he looked at Soval. 

The Vulcan had settled back in his chair, and, brows raised, was dissecting the look being exchanged between Phlox and Malcolm with a certain calm expectancy. 

“That’s right, Sir,” said Malcolm, looking up from his PADD’s display. “None of their blast signatures conformed to the angle, range or modulated frequency of the damage done to Commander Tucker.”

He passed the PADD to Jonathan. On its display were what he recognized as energy dispersal patterns from several series of standard Starfleet issue phase pistols.

“So, Lieutenant,” Jonathan already knew what Malcolm was going to say, but for the sake of his sleep and coffee deprived mind he took the moment to clarify. “You’re saying that, since none of these weapons could have injured Commander Tucker, somebody who was authorized to participate in the gathering of evidence deliberately removed the one that did.” 

“Precisely,” said Malcolm, nodding.

“And,” Jonathan set the PADD on the desk, next to his discarded coffee cup. “The possibility exists that this same person, or his or her associates, working from somewhere within Starfleet, may be involved in last night’s prison break.”

Again, Malcolm nodded.

Uneasy sourness stirred deep within Jonathan’s stomach. 

A member of Starfleet involved with a xenophobic organization like Terra Prime! 

But while the idea made him feel rather sick, it shouldn’t have surprised him. Hadn’t he seen one of his own crew commit suicide when his involvement with the group had been discovered?

“It goes further than that, Captain,” said Phlox. “As I was saying, Commander Tucker’s injury hasn’t responded because the frequency of cellular disruption doesn’t align with any of the healing modalities I’ve developed during my time on Enterprise, including those for Tellarite and Andorian weapons. Nor with any listed in Starfleet’s medical literature, the Interspecies Medical Exchange or that of the Vulcan data base. Since the initial injury appeared unremarkable, if it hadn’t been for his lack of improvement, we might never have looked into it more closely or realized what we’re dealing with. Show him, please, Lieutenant.”

Wordless, Malcolm reached for the PADD and tapped in several quick commands.

In silence, Jonathan waited. It was a damn good thing he hadn’t done more than smell that cup of coffee. His stomach was already a tightening knot of apprehension. For what this could mean for his friend, God, yes! But for… how had Phlox put it? For the ramifications that reached far beyond the degree of Trip’s recovery? 

Malcolm studied the PADD’s display for a moment then handed it back to him.

It was an energy dispersal pattern, he knew that much. Had seen far too many of them to be mistaken about that. Still…

“What…” Jonathan asked after staring at the display for several seconds. Already he suspected he knew the answer even as he was framing the question, but needing to hear it anyway. “Am I supposed to understand from this?”

Though the question had been mainly directed at Phlox, it was Soval who, in his calm, measured tones, replied. “That what was used, then smuggled out of that room, was not a weapon developed by, or belonging to, any member of the Coalition.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still dog-paddling through my first attempt at suspense writing. All comments are (deep breath, gulp :)!) welcome. LZJ


	4. Secrecy and Stealth

Chapter Four  
Secrecy and Stealth

 

Ten hundred hours, twenty minutes Pacific Standard Time  
Delmonico’s Café  
San Francisco, California

“I really shouldn’t,” Lieutenant Embree Atherton studied the menu on the high-top table’s screen. Lattes, mochas, half-cafs, double and triple espressos. “I’ve had enough coffee today to launch myself to warp six.”

It would be her second cup. Usually that got her to maybe half impulse. But she wanted something to blame for the jitters that had run through her all morning. 

“Well, there’s always pastry.” Mira Saxby said over the babble of conversation and the Tracker newsfeed streaming coverage of the Marin County prison break from overhead speakers. 

“Anybody tell you you’ve got a malicious streak?” Embree teased. It was amazing how normal she sounded as she tried to avoid the broadcast. She watched Mira’s finger waver between “cinnamon sweet-cheese croissant” and “chocolate raspberry torte”.

“Only my sister, my first college roommate, my second cousin on my mother’s side and… you! At least here you’re not choosing in front of a live server who’s thinking ‘gee, glad those are your calories, not mine’! Come on, confess- that’s why you wanted to come here instead of Wayfarers’- right?”

“Truth’s out at last!” Embree’s finger lingered over “caramel muffin” before tapping the touch-square beside “espresso, black”, then pressed her account card to “total” at the bottom of the screen. Anything solid would land inside her like a dumbbell anyway.

With twenty minutes before the next briefing, this techno oriented spot was better, less personal. Quick in, quick out, back to work. And she wouldn’t have to explain any comments about showing up twice in one morning if Dylleth was still on duty. 

Mira gave her a reproachful look and settled for “Latte, skim, Swedish cardamom”. 

“I had a big breakfast,” Embree apologized. She could feel its weight inside her, as she still saw the pilot across the table, wolfing his crepe in a rush to get his next client in San Luis Abispo, and leave this assignment behind with his silverware and empty cup. 

Just as she had hoped to do. Why had she expressed an interest in fieldwork? Cryptography never shadowed her day like this, though making the transition had seemed simple enough. A meeting for drinks with a stranger two nights ago. Blue dress, blue hat with a white flower in the band. Shades of classic vids. Glass of wine with the man who also turned out to be this morning’s breakfast companion. An activation card for the ground car set on the table like the one for tab transactions. A set of numbers on a meaningless vacation holo, suggesting when it was taken, though she now knew it held the time the holding facility would be vulnerable as well as the cell number and key code. 

So anonymous. She hadn’t known, or wanted to know, whose escape was so carefully choreographed. Hadn’t seen a pictured face until today’s first Tracker report, just before traffic and weather, revealed him as a prominent member of Terra Prime. 

Her first reaction was personal, not professional. Why would anybody want to free a bigot like that? She had to remind herself where her own orders had come from. People weren’t always… only… what they seemed. She’d learned that uncomfortably well today.

She had to say something to distract herself from this nagging uneasiness. 

Before she could begin searching for words, she realized they didn’t matter. Mira’s concentration was on the wall monitor as an exotic riff of lyre music poured over the babble and the newscaster narrated images of what looked like a wrestling match. “Tickets for tonight’s Tevek concert sold out in fifty three seconds, creating a riot by those who chose in-person purchasing versus electronic…”

“Can you imagine?” Mira demanded. “What a Vulcan musician thinks of such an emotional reaction to his performances? He must consider it to be-” 

“Espresso, black? Cardamom latte?” She was interrupted as their order arrived. The server slid their cups onto the table and, without another word, hurried away. 

“I’m sure he thinks it’s quite illogical.” Embree took a careful sip. The warmth cupped in her hands was soothing. “But after that Terra Prime incident, I for one welcome any kind of positive response to an off-world cultural event…”

The scene on the monitor dissolved and was replaced by the cool, detached features of the newscaster. “In other local news…”

“Is that all you can say? This concert will be so cool as to be just about frozen!”

“All right…” Embree pretended to study Mira’s face. “I don’t see any bruises, so let me guess. You’re one of those who didn’t brave the riot, but made your order…?”

“Yep. Electronically! Fourth row, just left of center!” Mira’s smug beam was even brighter than when she’d contemplated chocolate raspberry torte. “I was all coded in ready two minutes before the sale opened and… Em! What is it?”

The screen was still filled with a picture of the newscaster whose words seemed to fill the room. “…skimmer, which burst into flames…”

Don’t be ridiculous! Skimmer accidents weren’t common, but at the same time, they   
weren’t so rare as to assume this had anything to do with…

“…several seconds before the craft exploded over…”

…the pilot who flew the prisoner to San Francisco before heading for…

“…San Luis…”

“Em?” Mira leaned across the table. “Hey, talk to me. You don’t look so great.”

Embree tried to find a smile for her friend. What was the first thing she’d learned in training? Don’t jump to conclusions? She knew the right classroom words to tell herself, but they were meaningless compared to what her guts- inexperienced or not- told her. 

“I really shouldn’t…” She managed to swallow the rest of the sentence, the part about not letting herself lose control. There was a moment when she thought she’d found the balance between horror and composure before the espresso slipped from her fingers, hit the table, then burst in a dark splatter across the floor. 

 

Ten hundred hours, fifty five minutes Pacific Standard Time  
Starfleet Headquarters  
San Francisco, California

The mist off the Bay was lifting. Grey sky was becoming silver-blue as a faint circle of sun burned through, touching Malcolm Reed’s neck and shoulders with its first warmth and suggesting a trace of shadow beneath his hurrying feet.

He mostly ignored it.

Around him, the park-like green grounds of the Starfleet complex were settling into late-morning quiet. Work breaks were over. Most regular employees were back in their offices. Coalition delegates were scrambling for good seats at the eleven hundred hours briefing sessions, setting up note-taking equipment, or making last minute preparations for giving presentations. Only a few people sat talking under the trees, or moved, as he did, with single-minded speed toward their destinations.

He mostly ignored them, too. Still, with almost no conscious effort, his tactician’s instinct told him that he’d be little more than anybody’s passing thought as he traveled from one meeting to the possibility of another. Not that he was making an attempt to conceal himself in plain sight. It was only that unpleasant exchange before he left Captain Archer’s office that had the idea of secrecy zinging through his veins. 

Too bad he couldn’t ignore that as well.

Once that sensation had been a high, a pure adrenaline rush whispering to his young Ensign’s brain of honour and adventure… Covert… stealthy… purposeful… necessary!

He was more experienced now. Those feelings would never again be untainted by guilt and the residue of betrayal. 

Damn! He’d’ve been better off leaving with Phlox after the doctor’s report on Trip. The thirteen hundred hours briefing for Enterprise’s senior staff was already planned. The major questions that could be asked without more information had been posed. 

Did their earlier involvement in his capture, require the Enterprise crew to have any direct responsibility in the re-apprehension of the Terra Prime prisoner? 

…What was their place in the investigation of the Starfleet insider… or insiders… who had helped in his escape? 

Was there any particular significance to the timing of it? What was the connection, if any, with the alien weapon used in the array’s command center? 

How, or when, had that been removed from there without discovery…?

Good questions, all of them. Valid questions. But none he hadn’t already begun asking himself long before he’d arrived at Archer’s office.

The only difference an early departure would have made was that the mingled sting of resentment and humiliation might not be keeping him company right now. True, that was his own affair. His own problem to deal with. And nothing that should… or would… distract him from his course of action. But until he could get this next meeting over with, there was no clear way to shake its residue.

Why in bloody hell had he stayed, sitting there, waiting stiff and proper in his chair, for Soval to leave? Because he hoped to bring his half-formed intent to the captain’s attention? And for what? His approval?

Yes, damn it! That was precisely what he’d waited for. As if it would make a difference in the larger scheme of things.

How was it that he could discern the motives and actions of strangers, match them move for move, strategy for strategy, or display cool and decisive authority in combat situations without flinching, yet be riddled with doubt about his interactions with most of the people he cared about? Like his parents. Like Hoshi. 

And like his captain. 

There was nobody he respected more than Jonathan Archer. As a leader, a strategist and a man of honour and moral conviction. He’d valued the trust the captain had placed in him throughout their years on Enterprise. And yet he’d allowed an old allegiance to Starfleet Intelligence not only to outweigh his instinct to confide in Archer, but to justify lying to him as well. In the months since then, he’d worked hard to regain at least a portion of the trust his actions had shattered. Even liked to think he’d begun to succeed.

Now, with this second Terra Prime situation growing more complex by the hour, there must be no suggestion he was holding anything back, no matter how obsessed with secrecy his old superior proved to be. 

So, he’d waited to talk to Archer in private and… 

“You do realize, Captain…” At last, Soval had risen and moved to set his teacup in the recycler. “As far as Starfleet is concerned, your crew’s responsibility in the Terra Prime incident ends with providing direct witness testimony at trial.”

“Maybe it would under other circumstances,” the captain began straightening his desktop as he looked up at the Ambassador. “But with the implication of Vulcan in his escape, and the discovery that a non-coalition weapon was at, then disappeared from the crime scene, Starfleet is going to be brought into the investigation. Any attempt on its part to keep us from participating in it could suggest a cover-up. I think you already suspected as much, or we wouldn’t have had this meeting today.” 

That had been encouraging. The captain would likely have the same idea that Malcolm had been debating since the emergency security briefing at seven hundred.

“Indeed, Captain. I am pleased we have reached that same conclusion. Until thirteen hundred hours then, aboard Enterprise.” Soval confirmed before, with a quiet rustling of robes, he made his way from the small office.

…and Malcolm, already on his feet in an automatic gesture of respect to the Ambassador, listened to the door hiss shut behind him. He was about to speak of his plans, but paused, concerned. 

There had been a heaviness to Jonathan Archer’s movements as he rose to acknowledge Soval’s leave-taking that Malcolm hadn’t seen since Enterprise’s time in the Delphic Expanse last year. 

It was amazing to realize that, except briefly at the memorial for Trip and T’Pol’s daughter, he hadn’t seen Captain Archer since his speech at the Coalition conference. Had those stirring words of his been fueled by sheer adrenaline, or had something happened to him since then? There’d been the sad business of little Elizabeth’s death of course, but Malcolm doubted that had a great deal to do with the captain’s haggard look.   
By God, for all he’d been going through, Trip himself looked more rested than the captain did. 

With the brisk exchange of ideas during the meeting, his exhaustion hadn’t been so apparent. Now, the depth of it came as something of a shock. 

“Lieutenant…” Captain Archer’s voice cut into Malcolm’s moment of stunned silence. “If you don’t mind waiting a moment…” 

“Yes, Sir?” This was it, then. The request. Made, damn it, before he could suggest it himself. He’d anticipated some version of this scene was coming since Commander Sternmacher’s announcement that someone with knowledge of Starfleet procedures and likely with at least a mid-level security clearance, had assisted one of the Terra Prime prisoners to escape. Would that brief moment of hesitation suggest reticence in speaking of it to his captain? 

He’d listened to the silence that followed the commander’s words, then to the diverging theory ripples spreading around him. 

Speculation. All speculation. He wasn’t sure if that realization held more bitterness or resignation. Even as Sternmacher cleared her throat to give the summation, he knew if any real answers were reached, it wouldn’t happen in that room. 

Or even here, in the captain’s office. 

Before he’d gotten to his feet to leave that briefing, he’d already known where, if not yet quite how, he must begin finding those answers. And that it was important he tell Captain Archer what he wanted to do as soon as possible. No lies, no secrets, not even a hint of information withheld. 

In silence, Malcolm waited for him to dump the remains of his coffee into the recycler and wondered if he had already missed his moment. When at last the captain spoke, there was a hint of hoarseness in his voice. Again Malcolm was struck by the weariness of the man. “Aside from what I’ve been able to learn during these recent briefings, you know a great deal more about the workings of Starfleet Intelligence than I do…” 

“Sir…” It was both a relief and a discomfort to know his and the captain’s line of thought were already in sync. This was the moment to give him an explanation of what he planned to do. The difficulty was that, beyond trying to arrange a face-to-face, which he suspected was what Archer was about to suggest, he didn’t have a clear sense of what direction his restless intuition was trying to guide him. 

Perhaps he’d be onto something by thirteen hundred if, little as he looked forward to it, he could make this next meeting happen. If he could dig up a single clue to serve as a trail marker. “Am I correct,” he asked. “In assuming you wish me to get in touch with my contact there?”

Damn the old automatic response of keeping fellow operatives’ information held close to the vest! Why hadn’t he just said “Harris”? They both knew the man’s name.

Was it Archer’s weariness that stretched the silence between them for five, ten fifteen seconds, or had the captain noted the omission? Found it significant? 

He studied Malcolm with an unblinking green gaze, then gave a slow, reluctant nod. “Yes, contact him,” he said. “And, Lieutenant, need I remind you of your loyalty oath?”

The question rang like a slap in the quiet room. Malcolm could almost feel himself rock beneath its impact, even as he saw how the captain seemed to recoil from the sound of his own words. 

Not that it did much to blunt the sting of recrimination. “As I remember, Sir…” Malcolm’s tone was cool, clipped. He drew himself up and met Archer’s gaze straight on. His voice sounded as stiff as his posture. “I gave you my word on that.”

Jonathan shook his head. Shrugged. Sighed. “Sorry, Malcolm. I realize that. It’s all this… uncertainty these last weeks. I haven’t slept.” 

Silence again as Malcolm in turn studied him for an eternity of seconds. It was a great concession on Archer’s part, making such an admission to a subordinate. Still, sleep deprivation had only allowed the captain to slip and voice what was in his mind anyway. 

Archer didn’t trust him. Not yet. Maybe not ever again. 

The coolness in Malcolm’s voice was replaced with reluctant understanding, and more than a shade of sorrow. “No, I’m sorry, Sir. How can I assume your absolute trust after I… betrayed it?” 

“Because,” Jonathan said. “You gave me your word.”

That should have helped. 

Instead, much as he appreciated his captain’s resolute gesture, it only enhanced Malcolm’s regret over that whole wretched business with the Klingons. He hadn’t liked being placed in a position where he answered to two superiors, one past, one present. Both of them had heard him say, time and again since then that he’d sworn his loyalty to Archer’s chain of command, still he wondered now if either of them would ever be completely convinced. 

No matter!

Malcolm squared his shoulders. Walked a little faster. No point dwelling on what could not be changed. Though he could still taste the bitterness of regret, in the larger scheme of things, the important issue was getting to the bottom of this prison escape and whatever conspiracy lay behind it. His actions would speak for him even if, in the end, he was the only one listening. The captain knew now what his intended destination was. Harris would find out soon enough where and who he’d come from. Neither of them need concern themselves with what peace of mind this was costing him. 

But proceeding would be a great deal easier if he weren’t operating in such a void! 

Irritation fueled the speed of his footsteps as he took a shortcut across a stretch of manicured grass and along a row of flower-beds. If he got to Harris quickly, he might have a investigative direction to supply at this afternoon’s meeting. Something that would help him in filling in his own gaps. 

Everything seemed to have climaxed on Mars. He’d recited his version of events there several times already, first in his witness statement for the legal authorities, then as an entry in the ship’s logs and at last over breakfast the following day with Hoshi. 

It was fascinating to hear what she’d done while in temporary command of Enterprise. He’d gazed at her, his peanut-buttered pancakes forgotten, as she told him about the decisions she’d had to make. It had been such a delight to see the tough, courageous woman who’d emerged from the worried, insecure shell she’d worn in her early days aboard ship. Even more so to realize she had begun to recognize the fullness of that emergence. But when she’d raised inquiring brows and asked about his experience at the Array, all he’d managed was a small laugh and “There’s not a lot to tell”. 

He’d have liked for her to be as intrigued by his tale as he had been by hers. To see her lean a little toward him across the table, her vivid dark eyes bright and intent on his, but… Damn it, he’d never been particularly known for his abilities as a story-teller. 

Besides, he’d realized with combined chagrin and astonishment, he’d already given her the absolute, unvarnished truth.

There wasn’t a lot to tell.

That was when he realized how scant his recollections actually were.

Oh, he’d remembered, far better than he liked, the stomach-churning landing on Martian soil. The banter about how many planets everyone in the landing party had set foot on was clear enough. But in the Command Center itself?

That, he admitted to himself as he cut around a grove of trees and found the curving cobbled walkway leading toward the building which was his destination, wasn’t much of a memory at all. And, after this amount of time having passed, what little he had was probably all he was going to get back. 

Except for the moment when he burst through the doorway, it was little more than a blur of colours. There’d been a brilliant blaze of golden sky through a window, a green glow on a monitor, the streaming white dazzle from the muzzle of a weapon, then…

Darkness and a spreading numbness as he sank so… very… slowly…toward the floor. then a…

Thud! 

…that rattled through him as…

He collided straight-on with another hurrying figure. His movement was automatic, instinctive. A grab to steady himself as well as a vaguely familiar young woman wearing the uniform of a Starfleet lieutenant. 

There was a moment for gathering breath and equilibrium before he found his grasp tightening on her arm as he half gasped “Are you all right?”

She certainly didn’t look it. He could dismiss the stumble steps of overflow momentum. By the force of that jolt, she’d been traveling even faster than he had, running perhaps, though he hadn’t heard any pounding of footfalls. He could do the same for the pink flush of exertion on her cheeks and the faint, dewy gleam of sweat on her forehead. 

But her green-gold eyes were wide with something close to panic and beneath his touch, a fine thrum of tension vibrated through her muscles.

For an instant. Only an instant. Then she straightened her shoulders, drew a deep breath and managed in a voice that carried more than a hint of an Australian accent.   
“Yes. I’m fine. I… I wasn’t paying any attention at all to where I was going. Or…” her laugh was only a little forced. “…scratch that! Actually I was paying too much attention to where I was going, and not enough to getting there!”

“Nor was I,” he apologized, releasing his grasp on her arm, even as he continued to study her face. Watched to see that she had, indeed, regained her mental balance as quickly as her footing. “Sure you’re all right, then?”

She nodded, glanced from him toward the building just ahead of them, then back again. “Fine,” she said, then paused as though uncertain whether to stay or to start away. After an awkward moment she turned, managing to toss a flippant “Well, it was nice running into you!” over her shoulder and flashing a grin that never quite reached the corner of her eye.

He sketched her a small wave and the half-expected chuckle, before starting along the path, moving at a deliberate amble to let her know he wasn’t following her.

Wasn’t intentionally following her, that was. 

Difficult task when it became obvious they were heading toward the same building. Not that the coincidence necessarily meant anything, though that brief hesitation of hers suggested to him that she’d been at least as concerned about being followed as he was about making his destination apparent. Maybe she, too, planned to meet someone who…

Damn this morning’s preoccupation with secrecy and stealth! 

It was a big building that she had gone through the front door of! Seven floors big. Quite a big building holding lots of departments, offices and cubicles, filled with lots of clerks, archivists and translators, most of whose lives had much more to do with record-keeping or requisitions than rendezvous. 

Still, for both their sakes, he gave her the silent count of twenty before hurrying up the path and through the entrance doors.

The lobby was a wide, rather stark expanse of uncarpeted flooring, with large, identical potted plants standing at attention beside several heavy glass doors bearing Starfleet insignia, with gold letters below: Department of Linguistics, Department of Cultural Anthropology, Department of Legal Affairs… Malcolm had seen them all countless times in earlier years and now paid them no more attention than he had given the grounds outside. 

For the moment, the lobby was empty. His boots echoed across the terrazzo, their sound clear and sharp against the contrasting quiet as he made his way around a corner to a waiting bank of lifts. 

No indicators were lit, announcing that cars were engaged on other floors. Good. Ten minutes ago he would likely have had to wait in a queue for one to arrive, then quite possibly pass it up so he could get in unaccompanied. As it was, one opened at his touch. He stepped in and, moving to the control panel, rather than designating a particular floor, punched in a sequence of numbers, a key for an area without general public access. 

Only moments later, the doors whisked open to reveal a familiar rich dark blue carpet, stretching away in both directions down a long, narrow hallway. The thickness of its pile turned his footsteps to faint whispers as he turned left and made his way past a series of dark paneled doors, some with name or department plates beside them, some bearing signs for maintenance, supplies or the loos, others blank except for office numbers. He caught the occasional blurred rise and fall of conversation and once a somewhat muffled snatch of what had to be Klingon opera, but mostly the corridor was silent.

Until he reached a numbered door near its end. One whose name-plate made the exciting announcement that the office behind it housed the historic archives of interplanetary travel expense reports. 

Which, incidentally, in addition to a number of other, unmentioned functions, it actually did.

It also was, quite incidentally, the same door that Malcolm had been heading for.

He slowed his approach at the sound of an upraised voice. 

“Damn it! You never told me there’d be anything like this…!” 

Malcolm’s eyes rounded, but only for an instant. He knew that voice. Recognized the faint trace of Australia that he’d heard in it less than five minutes ago, though then it hadn’t been ringing with fury! “Maybe I went into this more naïve than I realized, but I thought, whatever else, you, of all people, would be honest with me. I’d bloody well rather you tell me this is none of my business than to suddenly begin playing a cat and mouse game…!”

Malcolm’s slowing steps became, with little conscious thought or planning, the cautious, discrete footfalls of the eavesdropper.

Oh, bloody hell! Secrecy and stealth! 

How could he have ever considered his old line of work as being honourable when it encouraged habits like this to become almost akin to second nature? 

“Lieutenant! If you would stop just one moment…!” That was Harris, his voice quieter, though no less urgent.

Malcolm waited for the sound-proofing device to be activated. 

Of course, he reminded himself, this might be a private row between intimates, not a security issue at all… Not that Harris had ever given any indication of having such a thing as a personal life.

Still, even if it wasn’t something involving Starfleet Intelligence, Malcolm knew his own first priority would be to press that little button just to the right of the upper desk drawer! If, say, he were in that office, getting into a vigourous disagreement with… well, Hoshi for instance… he wouldn’t want it resounding away down the corridor for all the world to hear!

Still, every instinct told him whatever had the Aussie so upset was work related and, furthermore, that it was something he’d be wise to learn more about.

This was confirmed a moment later as Harris continued. “Embree, whatever you are accusing me of, we are potentially discussing a matter requiring discretion! If you would only give me a moment to…!” His voice was coming closer to the door, growing clearer. Obviously, Lieutenant Embree Whoever-She-Was had burst in on him, completely unexpected and caught him somewhere in the office full of semi-ancient archival trivial minutia, but away from the immediate vicinity of his desk.

At least several steps away from it, Malcolm decided as the woman’s voice continued, her words as distinct and vehement as before. 

“So what are you trying to tell me? That that so-called accident wasn’t planned all along?” she was demanding as Malcolm cast his own ideas of discretion aside and moved to activate the door control. The volume of her words may have dropped, but the bite in each syllable sharpened. “Do you want me to believe that it wasn’t arranged in advance so there wouldn’t be any direct witnesses to testify in court about the escape? I ate breakfast with the man, less than four hours ago, and now… Now…!”

Malcolm paused, hand hovering, as he listened for the response.

“What makes you think this department had anything to do with it?” 

It wasn’t hard to read the hint of anger in Harris’s voice, though it remained both quiet and level. Could that be a hint of defensiveness in his tone as well? Was he only questioning her back-chain of provably damning information or…

…Incredible, astonishing thought…! 

…could he be… Stalling?

Enough stealth! 

Malcolm hit the control. The door, programmed for its usual guise as a normal office, set currently for general rather than mid- or high-level clearance, began to slide open. 

Embree certainly had managed to surprise him quite thoroughly, hadn’t she? 

Harris was only now slipping into his chair, his taut, swift hand reaching to activate the soundproofing mechanism as Malcolm burst through the partially open door.

“Well, if not your department, who the hell else, then?” Embree’s palms were planted on the top of Harris’s desk, elbows crooked, her chin thrust forward in body language that shouted of challenge, even as her eyes swept, surprise widened, toward Malcolm.

“Lieutenant…” Harris’s voice gave no clue which of them he was addressing as his gaze followed hers up to meet Malcolm’s, then divided itself between them both in a slow, studying look. 

The distant sound of Klingon opera drifted in from down the hall, a howling crescendo rising wild and distinct through the stretching silence during which nobody stirred. Five seconds, ten, fifteen seconds…

It was Harris who broke the look as well as the silence. He sat back in his chair, his dropping shoulders surrendering to the weight of the inevitable as he shook his head and, sighing, said the last thing Malcolm expected to hear.

“To be completely honest… I don’t know.”


	5. Chapter 5

The Double Edge  
Chapter 5

Twelve hundred hours  
San Francisco

“Here, I’ve brought you something. Put this on.”

Hadn’t he heard that line before?

It came with no surprise this time. For one thing, he’d been wide awake despite the interrupted sleep of the night before and the fatiguing restlessness of waiting through the morning, swinging between hope and uncertainty. Besides, there had been no suggestion of stealth in the sound of the door-chime, the click of the lock mechanism, or the perfunctory greeting.

He turned from the one-way glass at the window, taking his time to appraise the approaching figure. 

It wasn’t the man who’d come holding out a similar bundle last night. But then, he hadn’t expected him to be. 

This would be someone more central to the plan… whatever it was.

Someone more equipped to fill him in on what was to happen next.

His visitor’s demeanor bore out that supposition. There was a sureness to his movements and direct gaze that conveyed he believed himself in full command of the situation. Nothing wary. Nothing rushed or vaguely furtive. Though the neighborhood beyond the window had been unfamiliar, it must be in an area where his coming or going would raise no suspicion and little curiosity.

It was a more liberating knowledge than words could have conveyed, especially since he had almost dismissed the idea of abduction. If he were a gambler, he’d have estimated the odds at eighty-twenty this was a rescue operation. While foolish to believe that an absolute certainty, he now revised the numbers upward. Ninety five to five maybe.

Though it wasn’t in his upbringing to wager on probabilities, he’d learned a good deal about it while at the lunar mining facility. It was surprisingly satisfying to realize he had a certain knack, even a flair for it. All those late nights sitting at the card table helped him blend in with his co-workers, broaden an ever-useful range of English slang terms and gather information as it was passed, along with the kings, jacks or aces during casual games of poker. Some of that information had solidified his position within the mining operation, allowed him to rise quickly there and within the ranks of Terra Prime as well.

 

Of course, all that was over and done with now. It was time to look ahead to the next assignment, the next identity.

He unfolded the bundle of clothes, set the footgear tucked inside it on the corner of a convenient low table before holding up the garment for inspection. Frowning, he raised a brow. The basic cut was familiar, though the previous versions had always been more formal, of stiffer materials and more muted colors than this deep wine. Still, he had to admit he found the embroidery at the collar both tasteful and elegant, the rich burgundy hue warm and satisfying, if somewhat perplexing. “Not bad,” he said, running a hand along the length of a sleeve. “But what, precisely, is this supposed to be?”

“It’s a rather informal type of attire,” his visitor’s tone was sharp with impatience. “Fitting for either work in casual or relaxed settings, or recreation. I’d think you’d remember that much. A year isn’t that long, after all.”

“Of course I remember!” he snapped, his voice holding a similar note of irritation. “I’d think you’d know what I’m asking isn’t about the clothes! What interests me is what I’m supposed to become involved with this time while I’m wearing them. Business or recreation…?” He let the sentence trail away into a multitude of questions. 

He’d better get a tighter rein on the way he expressed himself! Quick, half-flippant sarcasm could become a dangerous habit. Even such a mild outburst as that might not serve him well in the near future. 

But first things first. When would he need to make his appearance at this work or recreation? Soon, he ascertained, perhaps in minutes or hours since he’d been requested to put the garments on, so he could go somewhere, ready to… do what?

That brought him to the bigger questions. How long was he supposed to be doing it, and with who? Which led to the biggest one of all… 

As who?

His contact seemed to read his mind. “I have your identity papers right here. You might be pleased to recognize the name and face.” A small packet was laid on the table by the shoes. “It will have documentation to verify your locations and activities while you were supposedly on your… sabbatical. They will conform to the voiced reports you submitted as part of your cover story. You will also find copies of those reports along with an appropriate collection of writings and notes that support them. I think you will discover your next assignment will be well in keeping with their contents.”

Never taking his gaze from that of his visitor, he reached for the packet. “And this assignment is…?”

“Primarily to get you off this planet before anything more is known about you and half our efforts here go for nothing. We have you positioned to serve in a practical and relatively inconspicuous capacity to facilitate that. The doctor will be here shortly to remove your current DNA redirection chip.” 

Opening the packet, he gazed down at the document bearing the face of his future. It was one even more well known than the cut of the clothes. He allowed a faint smile to touch his lips, containing most of the sudden surge of pleasure rising within him. 

He’d been right to remind himself the handling of his emotions could be important. It should not prove too difficult. He would don that old persona along with the garments and allow both to take on the comfort of long familiarity. 

In a few minutes. Now that he knew who he would be next, that he had information in his hands to help him prepare for his new venture, there were things to say about the last two weeks he didn’t want cloaked in careful courtesy or restraint. 

“You cut the timing damned close, didn’t you?” It felt good to at last give voice to the fear and fury that had coiled in his gut like a half-sleeping snake during his days in San Anselmo. “I sat in that holding facility for two weeks, not knowing until yesterday when I’d be transferred to a place with higher levels of security. That I would be put through complete medical and psychological profiling to verify beyond doubt my fitness to stand trial. Complete, you understand! That chip might have gotten me through a routine level-three worker’s physical like it did back on Lunar Colony, but not the level four or five I would have been subjected to…”

“Spare me the vehemence, there’s no time for it.” The visitor turned for the door, only pausing to look over his shoulder. “Remember you’re not portraying a ranting fanatic anymore. I have arrangements to conclude relating to your departure. I suggest you spend the afternoon reviewing your old cover. Right now you’d be even less convincing than that chip.” 

The sanctimonious idiot! The documents shook in his hand. Torrents of hot, angry words were bitten back and held behind clenched teeth. 

Of course, his visitor was only venting, as he himself had just done. Releasing tension. The reality was they both had people higher up the chain of intelligence who could make things very unpleasant should this mission devolve still further, become an utter disaster instead of remaining merely a rather dismal failure. 

Still, his attitude rankled. He hadn’t spent the past two weeks out of contact, out of control. He hadn’t paced his cell, walking and wondering, walking and wondering to the point of exhaustion, if he would ever move in daylight again. Instead he came sauntering in here from a nice, comfortable office over there at…!

He mustn’t allow himself to continue like this! With a concerted effort, he stared at the closing door and forced his fisted free hand to uncurl, his jaw to unclench. 

About one thing his visitor had been right. It would be a good idea to slip into those new clothes and see how they helped him fit back into his old identity. Think of himself as one of his older names again. 

No more Josiah now. He’d have to remember to close his ears to the sound of that name. Even more important, he had to recall how not to be a fanatic anymore.

 

Captain’s Star Log  
February 9, 2155, twelve hundred hours, forty five minutes

Enterprise remains in synchronous orbit over San Francisco. 

I have exercised my captain’s prerogative of summoning the senior staff from their various duties to discuss last night’s prisoner escape. It is Starfleet Security who is handling the investigation into how, and with whose aid, it was carried out, and implementing the measures for his recapture. And… 

Maybe I should simply leave it to them. I’ve been telling myself I spent so long manning a captain’s seat out there, beyond communication or back-up from Starfleet during our time in the Expanse, that I have forgotten how to easily surrender responsibility. Sometimes I almost believe it.

But whether it’s because Enterprise was Earth’s first vessel of deep space exploration, or due to our part in aborting Terra Prime’s destructive actions at Mars Colony, I’d be a fool to sit back and ignore the fact that her crew seems, in recent days, to have become a sort of unifying presence between the peoples of Earth and those of the new Coalition. As a result, at thirteen hundred hours we will…

“… Stop!” 

Jonathan Archer’s feet obeyed his command as his shoulders sagged and he waved a silencing hand at the log recorder as though it would respond to the gesture. He sighed. Everything he said was true, but he couldn’t convince himself he hadn’t been spouting anything more than a load of crap.

There was something tugging at him: a yet unrecognized puzzle piece, some… 

Idea? Memory?

…that might not help Security locate Josiah, but might…

…oh, come on Archer, be realistic, you don’t know that it will…

…provide clues as to what Paxton’s right-hand-man might want to set in motion.

Jonathan resumed his pacing of Enterprise’s conference room. 

Well, what was it then, this idea? How could something he wasn’t able to articulate going to stop the Terra Prime fanatic from starting this… this…?

God, he was tired!

He began pacing again.

In the hours between late and early, telling himself a fragment of dream had significance had made clear, shining sense. Even while he was making all those futile attempts to reach Malcolm, Phlox, Trip and Travis, it had seemed… well, if not quite rational, at least a highly intuitive, action to take. 

But now?

In the light of Enterprise’s artificially lit afternoon? He didn’t think talking to Trip about that dream would be so bad, though it was the kind of thing that would sound a lot saner with a beer in his hand and a water polo match on the screen in his quarters. Speaking of it to Phlox would be a little harder, but at least they could talk about it within the confines of professional confidentiality. Of course, that would imply he was a patient discussing the issue with his doctor, an idea that dropped his comfort level about ninety per cent. Discussing it with Malcolm? Travis? It was probably a good thing neither of them had been available at seven hundred hours, after all. 

Probably.

But still… There was that damned tug, settling to periods where it went almost unnoticed, but never… quite… letting go! It was getting just as annoying as that one particular word that couldn’t find its way off the tip of a tongue, or the snatch of song that wouldn’t shut up! But unlike the word, or the song, there was an ongoing sense that there was something about it that was… important!

Jonathan paused before the spot on the table where Security’s account of the prison break glowed from a monitor screen. He stared at the accumulated details of guard reports, security camera time-stamps, vehicle registrations and witness statements. No information had been updated since he’d run a quick review of these files during his shuttle trip from Starfleet. None of it touched that damn tug any more now than it had then. But maybe…

He checked his chronometer.

There would still be time to do now what there hadn’t been earlier.

 

He scrolled to Josiah’s dossier. There was all the standard data: date and place of birth, school records, employment history, his affiliation with Terra Prime. Nothing too odd or unusual on the surface, except…

He never would have pegged Josiah as having been a boomer! 

From everything he’d ever heard from Travis about the space-born, they might be clannish, protective of their vessels and the territories where they ran freight and supplies, but overall, they were more comfortable with human-alien interactions than people who’d been planet-bound for most of their lives.

His officers should start arriving any moment, along with Ambassador Soval of course. But until then, he would skim Josiah’s background, see if anything there might… just… provide him with… something… useful.

Hmm. 

Rigel, Keldain, Denoblia, Akzar… He followed a long, long list of visited planets, space-stations and trading outposts that must have dated back to childhood, through even longer ones of freight manifests, detailing shipments of metals, botanicals, fuel-gems, foodstuffs… and saw the picture of an adult career beginning to emerge. 

But no clues. Not yet anyway.

He glanced at the door as if it might tell him if there was anybody on the other side, preparing to enter, then went back to his reading.

There’d been a transfer from one family-owned multi-generational ship, a cargo-cruiser, to another, an ore-handler, about twelve years back. A piloting certification upgrade taken during a six week repair stint at a star-base subsequent to a mid-size hull breech eighteen months later. Another certification in mining operations and mineralogy (classes all taken via long-range transmissions) was completed about the same time. Eight years ago, he took part in thwarting a Ferengi raid…

(Jonathan almost groaned, recalling when those small, toothy, profit-grubbers had tried to snatch everything in sight off of Enterprise during its first year out!) 

…that would certainly be something to dampen the enthusiasm for alien contact, but surely not enough for Josiah to get caught up in the politics of human purity!

In fact, it seemed that he and his shipmates had gone back to business as usual as soon as they saw the last of the retreating Ferengi vessel disappear from their viewscreens.

Business as usual anyway, until he disappeared in a shuttlepod returning from a mining symposium during an ion storm, along with two of his crew-mates. Back in. ’48 that had been. About three years before the NX01 had launched. He’d been found, the sole survivor, living in a shelter converted from the remains of the crashed vessel on a minshara class world, three months later.

After that, the picture changed. Completely.

He’d turned his back on cargo-runs, freight-handling and, apparently on his entire family as well. No details on what might have caused the breech were available, but his name had stopped appearing on ship’s logs or manifests. It had been several months after his rescue that his name at last resurfaced. He’d landed himself a job working at a mining operation on a planet in the Jepdar system. Listed there as an ore extraction specialist, he’d stayed in that position for some extended period of time, though the records grew increasingly sketchy as the mine owners faced charges of mismanagement and corruption. Which, at some equally unclear point, brought Josiah to a new job with the lunar-based Orpheus Mining Company… And John Fredrick Paxton. 

Interesting, thought Jonathan, but nothing to explain that uncomfortable, recurring tug.

And maybe there never would be. Because the entire thing might be only a growing manifestation of his own long neglected fatigue. After this meeting, he’d talk to Trip about getting together to watch a water-polo vid tonight, along with a serious beer and bull session. After that, he’d drop by Sickbay and talk to Phlox about finding something to get his sleep-cycle re-regulated and…

Beyond the door, he thought he caught the murmur of voices.

Yes, those were T’Pol’s clear tones, followed by an enthusiastic run of words that could only have come from Travis. Time to ready himself for the meeting.

Jonathan closed Josiah’s dossier and brought up the document relative to last night’s escape and today’s discussion. At the top the announcement flashed:

FILE LAST UPDATED: 09 FEBRUARY, 2155, 1200 hours, 57 minutes.

His chronometer said that was less than a minute ago.

This time, along with the written report, a picture of Josiah had been included. Taken when he’d been remanded into custody, he was still dressed in the clothes he’d been wearing in the Command Center for the Vertiron Array when…

…when Malcolm, Phlox, Travis and Trip, phase pistols drawn, came through the door with him. Ahead, the launch computer’s display glowed green against the window full of gold-red Martian sky. 

Jonathan stared at the face in the newly added arrest picture…

(in the days of Trip’s beloved old movies, hadn’t those been called “mug shots?)

…Josiah’s expression was calm. It had been like that back on Mars, too. Both his, and his boss’s as well. Cold. Determined. Calm. Jonathan could see them, painted on his eyelids as clear as anything when he closed his eyes. 

Yes, he was certain of it…

Paxton’s face was tranquil, as were the stern features of the tall, dark skinned man at the console beside him. 

The picture had captured Josiah’s expression precisely. He had such still, impassive features. Except for the eyes. Even in this unmoving “mug shot”, their penetrating gaze seemed to flash, to evaluate, to be looking a thousand places at once…

It was a gaze that would have been unnerving even if it hadn’t happened that…

The man beside Paxton swung a phase pistol into view. His gaze flicked back and forth as the weapon’s muzzle sought a target, then lifted toward Jonathan’s chest. It wavered a moment before the whine of weapons fire filled the room. 

Jonathan groaned, low in his throat, as the tug came again.

It was stronger than since he’d seen that face, those eyes and woken from…

That same damn dream!

The door hissed open. Travis’s eyes met his, curious, then serious, even concerned, though a huge, delighted and more than a little relieved grin still lit his face.

“Well, Ensign,” Jonathan couldn’t help but return that infectious smile. “May I assume you passed your piloting certification upgrade?”

“Yes, Sir…” Travis’s excitement flowed over him in a warm, happy stream of words, even as Jonathan sought the gaze of his companion. She was the one person who’d been with them on Mars that he hadn’t thought about talking with this morning. Of course, she hadn’t been in the Command Center, but for what he wanted to ask her, she wouldn’t need to have been.

There had been something significant in that dream. In the events within that room. But it was caught, somewhere beneath his conscious memory. And, were she willing, he knew just exactly how his Vulcan first officer could help him to access it!


	6. Chapter 6

The Double Edge  
Chapter 6

9 February, 2155  
Thirteen hundred hours  
Starfleet Headquarters

Admiral Forrest never shouted.

All right, everybody did sometimes, unless they were Vulcan, and Mira Saxby wouldn’t swear they never raised their voices when beyond the hearing of humans. But she didn’t recall her old superior shouting like Admiral Gardiner was doing now.

Not that he was at roof-raising volume, but it was a good thing he had a large suite of offices. She hadn’t caught his lifted tones until she passed through the door separating its inner rooms from the main reception area where two Andorian dignitaries sat awaiting their appointment. 

Exactly how keen were their antennae, anyway? 

Hard to tell. At least they weren’t twitching in the direction of the Admiral’s door. Still, it was unsettling that, from the adjoining office where she usually worked, she could make out enough words to have dismayed him.

If it were Admiral Forrest in there, she’d have felt honor-bound to cross her office, tap the door-chime, stride in smiling as if oblivious of the shouting and announce meaningfully. “Sir, I have your next appointment waiting in reception. Shall I inform them it will be a few more minutes?”

This wasn’t Admiral Forrest. And it wasn’t only his volume that was unsettling. 

“Of course!” His words came, quick and clipped. “I’m concerned by the red flag Archer triggered with hiss questions into the prisoner’s background! I’m even more curious about what raised them!”

Sitting down at her workstation, she keyed the monitor to active. As the display burst into lines of routine correspondence, she closed her eyes to the images there and listened.

“I had your assurances nobody would be endangered, let alone killed…”

Killed? Horror goose-fleshed its way up and down Mira’s arms.

Suspicions had jittered through her since that coffee cup had slipped from Embree’s shocked fingers. Embree’s story that she believed a casual acquaintance of hers had been traveling to San Luis Abispo this morning didn’t match that violent reaction. Too much shock, too much horrified certainty when no name had been released. Too much urgency to dash away to a forgotten appointment when they’d been enjoying an unhurried perusal of pastry temptations only moments before.

Mira had known for several weeks that Embree’s involvement with covert operations had deepened beyond her work in cryptology. Such knowledge was part of being on an Admiral’s staff, though she couldn’t guess how far that involvement had gone, only speculated whether Embree had the make-up to be anything more than a low-level operative. But then, perhaps that’s all she’d aspired to, imagining it would lend a bit of variety to the days she spent poring over endless streams of encoded documents. 

Mira believed she herself did not have the personality for covert situations. But this… Could she sit by and not involve herself when someone had been killed! With the Admiral’s few words, the death of that pilot and last night’s prison escape had gone from two unrelated Tracker news items to a horrid certainty. Not only were the two events connected, Gardiner and at least one other person were now directly implicated in both.  
She leaned further forward in her chair, as the Admiral continued. 

“What do you mean? You were told there must be no back-tracing of witnesses? This was cruel, paranoid and heavy handed! It’s stirred up more questions than it’s buried!” 

Listening like this was no lack of loyalty, was it? Not to Starfleet anyway. At least not to Mira’s idea of what it should be. But to Gardiner? 

She didn’t know. She’d long since lost the almost compulsive urge to apologize for minutia which had marked the early days of this posting. She’d been an Ensign then, under the direct authority of Admiral Forrest. He’d had high standards and those apologies had been heartfelt. But he’d conveyed that, while a person’s rank might be subordinate to his, as individuals all were equals. He’d let her know her infrequent lapses were those of inexperience, and he had every confidence that she would learn from them. 

Admiral Gardiner often implied he found her somewhat inept and mildly insubordinate. While she knew her job efficiency and performance were as good as ever, she had been shocked to recognize her attitude lacked some of the pride and respect that had once been so central. Still, aside from any personal friction between them, she had never questioned his integrity or devotion to Starfleet and its ideals. Until now. 

Why would a Starfleet Admiral want to give any form of assistance to a member of Terra Prime? And how much, exactly, did he know about the escape? Someone within Starfleet who had enough rank and clearance had certainly supplied a great deal of high security information to make it possible. 

Still, he’d protested over the pilot’s death. But was the protest for the action itself or the heavy-handedness of it? And who was he protesting to?

“You believe I am not appalled by this death?” The answering voice was female. Was that a trace of the Western region of the European continent? “Admiral, I was given to understand the operation was constructed so there could be no back-chain of informants! Nobody was to know the identities of more than one other person involved.” 

That voice was almost familiar. And yes, Mira was almost certain, there was something Western European in it, more an intonation than an actual accent. Given a few more words, maybe she could put a name to it…

“It sounds,” Gardiner was on his feet. Mira could hear his voice moving back and forth, back and forth across his office as he paced. “As though you and your personnel put too much trust in those who orchestrated the plan!” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Admiral! They would have no cause to sabotage their own plan! What would be the reason? As for my personnel, I assure you, they had no connection with the death of that pilot! Nor, to my knowledge-” Her affronted tone dropped from indignation into sudden caution as she continued. “-neither did the Section.”

“I’ve already had assurances from that quarter.” Gardiner’s tone was quieter now, edged with sudden weariness. “They have at least as many questions as we do. One of Archer’s people was there a little over an hour ago, looking for information on a weapon that’s gone missing. One we haven’t been able to trace to any Starfleet department or any legitimate known manufacturer from a Coalition planet. For the sake of quick resolution, they’ve already begun an investigation to parallel your own, both of the escape itself and certain irregularities dating back to the capture of the Terra Prime leaders on Mars.”

“A parallel investigation! Are you implying you don’t trust my officers to police their   
own actions?”

“Right now,” Gardiner interrupted. “My main concern is speed! Any rumors or suspicions that cannot be resolved in a quick and thorough manner may well undermine everything we have managed to accomplish in these last weeks! The Coalition is not yet so strong that it can be assured to survive…”

“Admiral! I resent your lack of faith in our competence! We have not yet even ruled out the possibility the pilot’s death truly was an accident.”

“Don’t play me for a fool! We know the Vulcans were carefully implicated as a delaying tactic, to confuse the investigation long enough to guarantee the prisoner’s getaway. But at whose instigation? Their own? That seems hardly likely when no contradictory evidence has yet been produced to clear them of involvement now that he’s disappeared! The obvious suggestion is that someone within Starfleet with hidden ties to Terra Prime is responsible, but that seems to me almost as blatant a false lead as that the Vulcans could actually be behind this.”

“Admiral, you are making assumptions based on incomplete information and-!”

“Then complete it! And soon! There are a lot more assumptions than mine that will be flying around in the next few hours if we don’t get a handle on this situation. Terra Prime is a fuse word, strong enough to ignite a firestorm of rumors and mistrust. Do you want to see this entire conference, maybe the Coalition itself come crashing? If not, then get going! Get me something I can use to douse it, and fast! Now get out of here! I have an appointment overdue and then another panel to attend!”

“Admiral, I-”

“I said go! That’s an order!”

“Yes, Sir.”

Mira blanked her monitor, leapt to her feet and started across the office, swerving away from her desk so that she appeared to have hurried in from the reception area. She forced a smile, raised her hand for the door chime. “Admiral, your thirteen hundred appointment is waiting is here-” she began as the door slid open before her. She had to do a quick side-step to avoid colliding with the figure who barreled through.

No wonder the voice had been familiar! Even the swift, sidelong glimpse she got as the other woman hurried past, was enough to supply the missing name.

She’d been in and out of here dozens of times, dating back to when this office suite was Admiral Forrest’s.

It was Sternmacher, one of the department heads of Starfleet Security. 

 

Enterprise NX-01 conference room  
Thirteen hundred hours, ten minutes 

“My mind to your mind.”

In the moment before his awareness changed, there was just time for Jonathan to realize how much different this joining would be than the others he’d experienced. 

The brush of fingertips across his temple was as light as San Francisco morning mist. It seemed almost to be seeking permission to be there, even as it probed for the psi points. There was none of the punching urgency of Syrran’s melding, or cold fervor of T’Pau’s. The tightness in his shoulders, which had gone almost unregistered until now, eased beneath the surprisingly gentle touch.

Yes, he decided, this meld had been the right move after all. 

There’d been a moment of doubt as he’d faced the people seated around Enterprise’s conference table. Reporting he was having a recurring nightmare seemed like putting himself on intimate and even bizarre display, as though commanding a starship should also somehow make it easy for him to take control over his dreams. 

Ridiculous idea! Command rarely had much to do with easy. 

Besides, after a nineteen-page writing jag near a singularity or trying to parent a clutch of Insectoid Xindi eggs, calling this announcement bizarre seemed like an overstatement. 

Knowing that a prominent figure in that dream was now the focus of a massive Starfleet manhunt and investigation, then mentally framing his comments as “information sharing” had helped him approach the uncomfortable subject from a far more objective stance, but still… 

The ever-present thrum, thrum, thrum of Enterprise’s engines made the silence following his last words seem louder, last longer. 

Especially when there were no “oh yeah, I’ve had that dream too” nods of recognition along the sides of the conference table. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been hoping for something like that. 

Beneath a mix of perplexity and concern, Travis Mayweather was still all but floating off his chair with pleasure after passing his piloting certification upgrade. Obviously, he’d just arrived from receiving his results and had no opportunity for any advance briefing about Josiah’s escape. Though it made things less comfortable, maybe it was a good thing, Jonathan had reminded himself, since much of what he’d sought were spontaneous reactions.

Malcolm Reed’s alert grey eyes had flicked up to meet his, though his attention appeared to be dividing itself between Jonathan’s words and the data PADD lying on the table before him. Had the lieutenant managed to discover a significant link between the prison-break, the Vertirran Array’s vanished weapon and its unknown origins?

Not from any Coalition planet! 

No, he must still be waiting, or he’d have burst in with the announcement.

From Malcolm’s other side, Phlox’s brows rose as his mildly reproving gaze settled on Jonathan’s. He had almost heard the doctor’s chiding voice: “Captain, I may have been able to assist with your sleep problem if you’d discussed it with me earlier!” 

At the far end of the table, Ambassador Soval’s posture was attentive, though his features held a familiar look of impassivity.

Jonathan’s gaze settled, then rested, on T’Pol. She was the person who would either accept or reject what he had proposed. 

 

Well, he’d certainly done a good job putting her on display as well as himself, hadn’t   
he? He almost shuddered at his own audacity. 

Desperate times, desperate measures, he reminded himself. But still… How could he have asked such a personally invasive thing of her so soon after the death of her daughter, and in front of so many other people? 

While the knowledge of Vulcan mind-melding was by no means secret these days, the act itself was a terrible lowering of the shields that protected one’s innermost being. If he hadn’t learned that from his experiences on Vulcan’s Forge, all he had to do was recall the haunted expression in T’Pol’s eyes after her forced meld with Tolaris. 

It was with the beginning of relief that he realized he saw no hint of that old memory in her face or her posture. Her head and one brow were tipped at what appeared to be a considering angle, as if she were taking in and weighing the implications of his words. 

That relief died when, from the chair next to hers, Trip’s gaze met his. 

Initially, Trip had acknowledged Jonathan’s suggestion with little more than a sidelong glance as he, too, appeared to study T’Pol’s face. 

Despite Phlox’s description of the engineer’s condition, Jonathan wasn’t prepared for the sight of Trip’s tired, sadness-shadowed face, or the arm he still carried in a sling.

There’d been a moment for regret as he gazed at his old friend.

We’ve been so out of touch!! Two weeks since Elizabeth died and grief was still written deep in his eyes, and that shoulder injury wasn’t responding to treatment… 

That injury from a non-Coalition weapon… The one he’d seen nosing upward toward his own heart back on Mars. And in that dream…

That damn dream …

He and Trip would have to carve out some quality time together, and soon. Some beers and a slow, undirected conversation. There’d been none of that since… Since when? Back before Columbia sometime. 

But right now, there were so many concerns that needed sorting out here, ones needing even more immediate attention, and reaching far beyond whatever the future degree of Trip’s recovery would be.

Despite Trip’s obvious weariness, there had been no mistaking the air of fierce protectiveness in the way he shifted closer to T’Pol. His blue eyes had flashed with something close to defiance. “Cap’n,” he began, no note of compromise in his tone as his words snapped the stretching silence. “T’Pol can’t, she won’t…”

Before he could continue, another voice filled the stillness. 

“What you suggest, Captain, is completely impossible.” 

To Jonathan’s surprise, and flaring irritation, it was Ambassador Soval. 

Moments ago, Jonathan had questioned making his announcement and subsequent request. Now he had to will himself away from blurting out an automatic defense of it. Soval was no longer the adversary he once had been. It wasn’t so many days ago since the Vulcan had led the standing ovation following Jonathan’s speech before the Coalition Council. 

Still, old habits died hard. Especially when the idea of melding with T’Pol to sort through the dream’s tangled images had been the only halfway decent solution Jonathan had come up with as the sharp claws of his own fatigue scratched at his bones with increasing insistency.

“Shouldn’t that be her decision?” He glared from the Ambassador to his Chief Engineer. Drawing a deep breath, he gathered himself, waited a handful of heartbeats and, focusing his attention on Soval, asked in as reasonable tone as he could manage. “Why impossible, Ambassador?”

“Commander T’Pol cannot conduct a mind meld with you at this time,” said the Vulcan in his maddeningly calm tone.

“I wasn’t proposing-” Jonathan could hear the irritation still sharpening his words. “-that we stop the meeting to conduct the meld right here and now…”

Though, he realized with some degree of bitter surprise, that was the idea that had been lurking at the back of his mind. 

 

Right here and now. Get those images out of his head, into the open where more objective minds than his could discover what it was he had missed. 

He sighed. Desperate times, desperate measures… Right.

Then he realized that wasn’t what the Vulcan was saying.

“No, Cap’n,” Trip’s tone was as decisive as Soval’s, though the note of defiance had gone. “He really means can’t. T’Pol can’t perform a meld at all right now because she’s still carryin’ Elizabeth’s katra.” 

Soval gave a brief nod in Trip’s direction, then turned to Jonathan. “The Commander is quite correct. A meld would be impossible except, perhaps, for someone already within her own family bond.”

Damn! Fatigue and frustration could feel so similar sometimes! It had seemed like an almost reasonable idea, but it was a dead end. 

“However, Captain,” Soval’s voice broke through his tired thoughts. “If you are willing to consider it, might I propose another possibility?” 

And now, to his amazement, here he was, at the same conference table, with his senior officers around him and the Vulcan Ambassador’s fingers pressed to the side of his face. 

Despite the intensity of Soval’s gaze, his touch remained light and amazingly gentle. There had been only an instant to appreciate how different this meld would be than the others he had experienced when he began to be aware that there was… 

A presence. Growing nearer, larger, clearer… 

Then came a brush of awareness of himself seen from outside… That was his own hair, a little tousled, his green eyes, bleary from sleeplessness, but their gaze nonetheless sharp and intent as it was seen… 

No, perceived! 

…through Soval’s eyes. No, through Soval’s mind.

“My thoughts to your thoughts.”

Was Soval’s voice coming from the center of his head instead of through his ears? 

Bewildering sensation. Both alien and well-remembered.

 

Especially the recognition that the run of observations within his mind was clearly not   
his own, then seeing himself as… Some part of…

…of… Us…! A part that was… 

…So Human! Filled with rivers of feelings. Rivers, tributaries and side currents of emotion, some slow and steady, some with whirlpools and eddies of confusion, then a surging stretch of high-stressed white waters which had been admirably regulated within a carefully maintained and monitored flood-gate. A few years ago, to discover such depth of discipline would have been… surprising. But now, he had known…

No. They… we… had known…

…Archer! Soval! Each other…

…long enough to recognize how little they had really known!

Then the perception shifted to the part of us that is…

So Vulcan. Schooled in what was long believed to be the logic of Surak. Fascinated by other species, distant worlds, but striving, always striving to be so sure, so correct, so Vulcan. Because of the secret, stigmatized ability to meld with another. An ability that was so natural during early childhood, but must be mastered, hidden, denied, for the sake of a career, for the opportunity to learn of those alien cultures from which, ironically, a careful distance must always be held. Locked within silence until only months ago when, to learn who had planted a bomb in Earth’s embassy on Vulcan, that deep, deep secret had been confessed.

What an amazing relief to have relinquished the burden of silence!

“Our minds are merging…” The spoken words echoed through a timeless stillness that was oddly peaceful and almost casual. Even- Jonathan could find no other word!

-companionable!

But with precise, focused, sometimes formidable Soval? Now that was… amazing!

Indeed, Captain. The response came, quick and clear. I too find it… surprising. 

That fleeting ripple of wry humor was not his own! But the appreciation of it was!

“Our minds are merging…” 

This time the words were spoken only in silence. 

“Our minds are one.”

Even as their… 

As our? 

-perceptions merged, Jonathan realized he had not so much lost the awareness of his individuality as that he-

We?

-had gained a sort of second self. 

Fascinating! 

He was aware that he and Soval had begun a careful exploration of the people living behind long-familiar faces. Not profound exchanges, but snippets of irrelevant, yet intriguing bits of information. 

Soval planned to visit a Vietnamese restaurant this evening to have tofu with pea pods. He did this once or twice a week, but would change his plans if the current situation wasn’t headed toward some resolution. He’d intended to go to a concert afterward, but likely would give his ticket to a colleague. 

Concert! That reminded Jonathan he’d meant to ask T’Pol about some music he’d heard once in her quarters a few weeks ago. If he could discover what it was and download it, maybe it would help him sleep. 

Of course, if this meld put an end to the dreaming, that would help too.

This was a kind of social chit-chat that neither one of them-

Either of us! 

-could imagine conducting beyond the borders of this connection. 

It was the kind of talk that often-

( On Earth!)

-went on between half-strangers at parties or diplomatic functions, geared more to getting a sense of the person one was talking with than gathering detailed information. But it was strange how smooth this joining was, when the two of them-

The one of us!

…had butted heads…

(Such an odd expression!) 

…time and again, going back to before Enterprise launched. When they- When we!

-granted each other only the most grudging respect, then watched that respect grow until they- Until we!

-could entertain a communication that was more companionable than spoken conversation. Something as deep, even intimate, as dreams.

As that dream that brought us here to this joining.

Because it’s been trying to tell us something. Repeating, repeating. Breaking our sleep with underlying importance! Scrubbing away at our concentration when we can’t afford the inattention. Not when there is such great purpose to all these days and weeks of talks. But how many secret agendas have been hidden in the same rooms where this Coalition is trying to form? Someone, probably several people, have worked within Starfleet to disrupt the process by coordinating last night’s prison break. 

We can only travel in mental circles while we lack information. This is not logical.

Perhaps Lieutenant Reed will be able to supply some more helpful puzzle pieces to the increasingly disturbing ones that we are trying to sort through here… 

What is definitively known is that Josiah, one of the highest ranking Terra Prime prisoners has gone missing and it must be discovered where! And why he is present in each repetition of the dream we…

…were considering moments ago.

Enough circling! We have entered this meld to revisit the Array on Mars and discover which detail was seen, recorded in deep memory and yet has a significance that has gone unrecognized. Let us now retrace those events. Watch our surroundings take shape, assume the illusions of color and substance. Move into the dream. 

Into the corridor where we travel, quick and quiet-footed toward the Array’s command center. Malcolm, Phlox, Travis and Trip, phase pistols drawn, burst through the door with us. Ahead, the launch computer’s display glows green against the window full of gold-red Martian sky. Paxton’s features are impassive, as is the stern face of the tall, dark skinned man at the console beside him. 

That face. There’s something about that face! 

“Step away from the control panel!” We toss the words ahead of us. 

Paxton smiles, his impassivity giving way to something akin to pleasure. “Jonathan Archer, the man who delivered us from the Xindi …” 

“The command center’s in there!” From off to our left, we hear Trip’s voice. 

“Shut it down!” We order, sparing him barely a glance before darting forward. Malcolm, Phlox and Travis’s footfalls sound close behind us as Trip veers away toward the targeting console.

Ahead of us, there is movement. Not Paxton’s. He’s completely still, except for a self-righteous smirk just tickling the corners of his mouth, as he stands, straight, smug, assured of his victory, beside the console. It’s coming from the edge of our vision, a glinting arc of motion as the man beside him-

(Josiah! Our missing prisoner, Josiah!) 

-swings something up into view from behind the console. Unlike Paxton, whose face still bears that look of growing satisfaction, Josiah’s face-

That face! Something-? What is it about that face?

-remains impassive, resolute as the object in his hand comes into view, growing clearer and clearer in every focused detail. 

It’s a weapon! A phase pistol. 

It lifts. Noses its way upward. It’s traveling so, so, slowly now. Every moment is stretching out for light years. Every color, every movement shines in diamond-cut detail. We’ve never been able to watch things happening in this way before! We can see each subtle movement as the weapon’s muzzle seeks, then hones in on us, on our chest, then finds a point to the left of center. 

It forms a triangle of perfect purpose, connecting our heart, the barrel of the weapon and Josiah’s cool, resolute gaze. His thumb strokes a button, his finger glides toward the firing mechanism, before-

His hand swerves the thing away from us and-

Wait!

Didn’t it swing in a wide, swift arc, flash its fire at Trip and tumble him out of sight behind the targeting controls?

Yes, it did. It will. But-

We can still see Josiah’s eyes-

What is it about those eyes?

-as they dart back, forth. Resolution wrestling with itself in their dark depths, leaving the weapon to hover for what must, before, have been some bare fraction of a second. Now the moment of uncertainty stretches on and on for an eternity before Josiah’s gaze hardens, then sends the weapon’s muzzle arcing. 

Not toward Trip, but…

On course to a closer target!

It’s lifting, lifting… Wavering…

Then lurching back onto its original trajectory. The streaming brightness of its discharge fills the room and Trip is toppling, toppling…

Before everything speeds up again.

There’s an instant of sharp surprise. 

It was so fast before… We saw, but didn’t know… 

We saw… We have seen… 

That face! 

That movement! That intention!

We… have seen…!

How is this possible?. 

The gasp came in stunned unison.

Both Jonathan’s head and Soval’s hand jerked in involuntary reaction and the connection linking them shattered.


End file.
